*  ^139 


AT   THE   WIND'S    WILL 


AT  THE  WIND'S  WILL 


Lpn'cs  anli  Bonnets 


BY 

LOUISE    CHANDLER   MOULTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SWALLOW  FLIGHTS,"  "  IN  THE  GARDEN  OF  DRBAMS," 
HTC. 


I  had  walked  on  at  the  wind's  will,  — 
I  sat  now,  for  the  wind  was  still. 

D.  G.  ROSSETTI 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 
1900 


Cofvrighf,  1899, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


iress 
JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.S.A. 


TO  HOPE. 

Undying  Hope,  Memory's  immortal  heir, 

To  thee  I  consecrate  this  sheaf  of  song,  — 

In  darkest  gloom  of  thee  I  am  aware  ; 

Thy  magic  is  to  make  the  weak  soul  strong. 


1702139 


CONTENTS. 


Lprtce. 

PAGE 

SONGS  AT  SEA 3 

ON  A  ROSE  PRESSED  IN  A  BOOK 5 

THE  SUN  is  Low 6 

THE  SECRET  OF  ARCADY 8 

AT  NIGHT'S  HIGH  NOON 10 

THE  VOICE  OF  SPRING n 

IN  EXTREMIS 12 

WHEN  LOVE  is  YOUNG 14 

AT  THE  END 15 

To  SLEEP 17 

WHEN  You  ARE  DEAD.    A  LOVER  SPEAKS    .    .    .  18 

THE  BIRDS  AND  I 20 

THE  BIRDS  COME  BACK 22 

A  WINTER'S  DAWN 23 

THE  LURE 25 

DEAD  MEN'S  HOLIDAY.    AFTER  SHIPKA     ....  26 

WHEN  You  WERE  HERE 28 

BECAUSE  IT  is  THE  SPRING 29 

HER  PICTURE 31 

A  VIOLET  SPEAKS 32 

LEGEND  OF  A  TOMB  IN  FLORENCE 34 

THE  SUMMER'S  QUEEN 36 

BEND  Low  AND  HARK    ....        37 

A  SONG  FOR  ROSALYS 39 

THE  GENTLE  GHOST  OK  JOY 41 

WHEN  I  WANDER  AWAY  WITH  DEATH 42 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

HAS  LAVISH  SUMMER  BROUGHT  THE  ROSE?   ...  44 

A  LOST  EDEN 45 

THE  MOOD  OF  A  MAN 47 

JUNE'S  DAUGHTER 48 

A  SUMMER  WOOING 50 

I  HAVE  CALLED  THEE  MANY  A  NlGHT 5! 

THE  COQUETTE'S  DEFENCE 52 

A  WHISPER  TO  THE  MOON 54 

IN  VENICE  ONCE 55 

MY  QUEEN  OF  MAY 56 

WHERE  THE  NIGHT'S  PALE  ROSES  BLOW    ....  58 

AND  YET 59 

I  HEARD  A  CRY  IN  THE  NlGHT .  60 

THE  NAME  ON  A  DOOR 62 

VAIN  WAITING 64 

A  WISH 65 

THE  COSTLIEST  GIFT 66 

To  HER  WHO  KNOWS 67 

IN  THE  OFFING 68 

WITH  A  BOOK 69 

Sonnets. 

LOVE'S  ROSARY. 

I.  LAND  OF  MY  DREAMS 75 

II.  THOUGH  WE  WERE  DUST 76 

III.  THE  ROSE  OF  DAWN 77 

IV.  THOU  REIGNEST  STILL 78 

V.  TIME'S  PRISONER 79 

VI.    "  HAVE   I   NOT   LEARNED  TO  LIVE  WITHOUT 

THEE  YET  ? " 80 

VII.  A  HEAVENLY  BIRTHDAY 81 

VIII.  LETHE 82 

IX.  A  SILENT  VOICE 83 

X.  WERE  BUT  MY  SPIRIT  LOOSED  UPON  THE 

AIR                                                       .  84 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGE 
OF  LIFE  AND  LOVE. 

AT  MIDSUMMER 87 

THE  LIFE-MASK  OF  KEATS 88 

SOUL  TO  BODY 89 

AT  REST 90 

SHALL  I  COMPLAIN? 91 

PARTING 92 

VAIN  FREEDOM 93 

THE  NEW  YEAR  DAWNS 94 

ASPIRATION 95 

OH,  TRAVELLER  BY  UNACCUSTOMED  WAYS  .    .  96 
GREAT  LOVE 

I.  GREAT  LOVE  IS  HUMBLE 97 

II.  GREAT  LOVE  IS  PROUD 98 

HER  YEARS 99 

MIDWINTER  FLOWERS.    To  E.  C.  S 100 

HER  PRESENCE 101 

WHEN   WE   CONFRONT  THE   VASTNESS  OF  THE 

NIGHT 102 

ON  MEETING  A  SAILING  VESSEL  IN  MID-OCEAN  .  103 

MIDNIGHT  AT  SEA 104 

INTER  MANES 105 

YET,  STRANGELY  BEAUTIFUL  YOUR  FACE  I  FIND  106 

A  SUMMER'S  DREAM 107 

MY  MASTERS 109 

To  PRINCE  ORIC  (Six  YEARS  OLD) no 

A  POET'S  SECOND  LOVE in 

FAIR  LIFE 113 

A  PLEA  FOR  THE  OLD  YEAR 114 

WHEN  I  AM  DEAD 115 

ONE  AFTERNOON.    To  LOUISA,  LADY  ASHBUR- 

TON 116 

IN  QUEST  OF  LIGHT. 

AFAR  FROM  GOD 119 

MY  FATHER'S  HOUSE         .  120 


X  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 
IN   QUEST   OF   LIGHT.  —  Continued, 

NEWLY  BORN 121 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  STARS 122 

A  QUESTION  :  AT  SEA 123 

THE  LAND  OF  GOLD 124 

A  PRAYER  IN  THE  DARK 125 

AT   DEATH'S    POSTERN. 

ACROSS  THE  SEA 129 

ROBERT  BROWNING 

I.  HIS  STAR 130 

II.  THE  POET  OF  HUMAN  LIFE 13! 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 132 

SUMMONED  BY  THE  KING 133 

PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON.     AUTHOR  OF  "  GAR- 
DEN SECRETS  " 134 

THE  CLOSED  GATE 135 

A  DREAM  IN  THE  NIGHT.    To  MY  MOTHER  .    .  136 

RonUete  anU  KonUeattjc. 

VAGRANT  LOVE 139 

THOUGH  WE  REPENT 140 

THE  SPRING  is  HERE 141 

To  THE  GHOST  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS      .    .  142 

AFTER  SUPPING  WITH  A  POET.    To  E.  G.     .    .    .  143 

ROSAMOND'S  ROSE 144 

To  A  FAIR  LADY 145 

Two  THRUSHES  MET.     FOR  M.  E.  S 146 

LOVE   MAKES  THE   SPRING 147 

LIFE'S  DAY.    To  ONE  WHO  ASKS  ME  FOR  A  MERRY 

SONG 148 

(Quatrains, 

THE  LOST  ROOM 151 

AUTUMN  DAYS 152 

A  DEAD  POET 153 


CONTENTS. 

.  —  Continued. 


PAGE 

IN  A  LIBRARY    ..............  *54 

THE  KING  DETHRONED     ..........  155 

WHO  KNOWS?   ..............  156 

DAY'S  MOCKERY    .............  157 

You  ..................  IS8 

I  STUDIED  LIFE      .............  159 

THE  PRODIGAL  ..............  160 

Craiwlattoiuf. 

LONG  WEEPING  ..............  163 

BY  MOONLIGHT      .............  164 

THROUGH  THE  DARKNESS  ..........  166 

THE  MIRROR      ..............  167 

LA  VIE  .................  i?i 


AT  THE    WIND'S    WILL. 


O  far,  so  far  have  I  come, 

Blown  by  the  Wind  of  Fate: 
Whither  ?     The  Voice  is  dumb.— 
The  Silence  dismays  me,  I  wait. 

The  Sunshine  mocks  me  at  morn, 
The  Stars  deride  me  at  night; 

Shall  strength  in  my  soul  be  born 
To  triumph  over  their  slight  ? 

Shall  I  live  when  their  fires  are  out  ? 

Shall  I  reach  where  they  cannot  go  ? 
Ah,  Fate,  resolve  me  the  doubt,  — 

Blow  on,  strong  Wind !  I  will  know. 


In  the  world  of  dreams  I  have  chosen  my  part 
To  sleep  for  a  season,  and  hear  no  word 

Of  true  love's  truth,  or  of  light  love's  art, 
Only  the  song  of  a  secret  bird. 

A.  C.  SWINBURNE. 

Shall  I  not  tell  my  dream  in  a  song  ? 

PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON. 


AT  THE  WIND'S  WILL. 


SONGS  AT  SEA. 

T  HAVE  been  lonely  the  whole  day  long  ; 

Come  and  find  me  to-night  with  a  song  ; 
Sing  to  me  now,  when  the  wind  is  low, 
And  my  heart  shall  answer  as  on  we  go  ; 
Listen  and  answer,  and  none  shall  know. 

Over  the  brooding,  wonderful  sea 
The  song  that  is  sung  alone  for  me 
Floats,  and  none  other  its  strain  can  hear, 
Or  catch  the  music,  subtle  and  dear, 
Of  the  delicate  singing  that  seeks  my  ear. 

The  West  is  red  with  the  sunset's  glow  ; 
In  the  East  the  moon  is  hanging  low  ; 
And  fast  and  far  the  light  winds  flee, 
As  I  sail,  with  your  songs  for  company, 
'Twixt  the  silent  sky  and  the  silent  sea. 

Do  these  birds  of  song  need  a  sheltering  nest  ? 
See  !  I  will  hide  them  warm  in  my  breast  ; 
There  shall  they  fold  their  venturous  wing, 
And  all  the  night  through  nestle  and  sing 
Songs  of  love  and  of  sorrowing. 


4  SONGS  AT  SEA. 

Then,  when  the  morning  is  young  and  gay, 

Up  from  their  shelter  and  far  away  ! 

And,  like  carrier  doves,  they  shall  bear  as  they  flee 

The  echoes  of  all  they  have  sung  to  me 

Alone  with  the  night  and  the  wind  and  the  sea ;  — 

The  echoes  of  passion's  divine  despair, 
The  bliss  and  the  bane  of  a  lover's  prayer, 
All  the  delicate  singing  that  none  might  hear ; 
And  the  answer  my  heart  shall  send,  my  dear, 
On  the  breath  of  the  morning  fine  and  clear. 


ON  A  ROSE  PRESSED  IN  A   BOOK. 


ON  A  ROSE  PRESSED  IN  A  BOOK. 

T  WIN  the  summer  back  again 
At  touch  of  this  dead  rose.  — 

0  lavish  joy  !  O  tender  pain  ! 
The  very  June  wind  blows, 

And  thrills  me  with  the  old  refrain 
Whose  music  my  heart  knows  : 

1  win  the  summer  back  again 
At  touch  of  this  dead  rose. 

Ah,  lost  is  all  the  summer's  gain, 
And  lost  my  heart's  repose  ; 
And  was  it  tears  or  was  it  rain 
That  wept  the  season's  close  ? 
The  winter  suns  they  coldly  wane ; 
White  fall  the  winter  snows  : 
But  Love  and  Summer  come  again 
At  touch  of  this  dead  rose. 


THE  SUN  IS  LOW. 


THE  SUN  IS  LOW. 

F  SIT  and  wait  for  you,  Dear,  my  Dear. 

Now  the  sun  is  low  ; 
From  the  far-off  town  the  path  runs  clear, 

And  the  way  you  know  — 
The  old,  old  way  that  brought  you  here, 

In  the  Long-Ago. 

The  white  moon  climbs,  and  looks  at  me  - 

Her  smile  is  cold ; 
Something  she  sees  that  I  do  not  see  — 

The  moon  is  old. 

I  catch  a  sigh  from  the  winds  that  flee 

Across  the  wold  — 
What  is  the  secret  they  hide  from  me  ?  — 

They  have  not  told. 

To  Lethe-country  your  steps  were  set  — 

Did  you  taste  that  spring 
That  makes  the  heart  of  a  man  forget 

The  dearest  thing? 


THE  SUN  IS  LOW. 

Nay  !  I  sit  and  wait  for  you,  Dear,  my  Dear, 

For  the  sun  is  low  — 
From  your  far-off  place  the  path  runs  clear, 

And  you  still  must  know 
The  old,  old  way  that  brought  you  here 

In  the  Long -Ago. 


THE  SECRET  OF  ARC  AD  Y. 


THE   SECRET   OF   ARCADY. 

T  HIED  me  off  to  Arcady  — 

The  month  it  was  the  month  of  May, 
And  all  along  the  pleasant  way 
The  morning  birds  were  mad  with  glee, 
And  all  the  flowers  sprang  up  to  see, 

As  I  went  on  to  Arcady. 

But  slow  I  fared  to  Arcady  — 
The  way  was  long,  the  winding  way  — 
Sometimes  I  watched  the  children  play, 
And  then  I  laid  me  down  to  see 
The  great  white  clouds  sail  over  me  — 

I  thought  they  sailed  to  Arcady. 

Then  by  me  sped  to  Arcady 
Two  lovers,  each  on  palfrey  gray, 
And  blithe  with  love,  and  blithe  with  May, 
And  they  were  rich,  and  held  in  fee 
The  whole  round  world  :  and  Youth  is  he 

Who  knows  the  path  to  Arcady. 

I  followed  on  to  Arcady  — 
But  I  was  all  alone  that  day, 
And  shadows  stole  along  the  way, 


THE  SECRET  OF  ARC  AD  Y. 

And  somehow  I  had  lost  the  key 
That  makes  an  errant  mortal  free 
Of  the  dear  fields  of  Arcady. 

But  still  I  fared  toward  Arcady, 
Until  I  slept  at  set  of  day, 
And  in  my  dreams  I  found  the  way ; 
And  all  the  Fates  were  kind  to  me  ; 
So  that  I  woke  beneath  a  tree 

In  the  dear  land  of  Arcady. 

What  did  I  find  in  Arcady  ?  — 
Ah,  that  I  never  must  betray : 
I  learned  the  secrets  of  the  May ; 
And  why  the  winds  are  fresh  and  free, 
And  all  the  birds  are  mad  with  glee 

That  soar  and  sing  in  Arcady. 

I  dwell  no  more  in  Arcady  :  — 
But  when  the  sky  is  blue  with  May, 
And  flowers  spring  up  along  the  way, 
And  birds  are  blithe,  and  winds  are  free, 
I  know  what  message  is  for  me,  — 

For  I  have  been  in  Arcady. 


10  AT  NIGHT'S  HIGH  NOON. 


AT   NIGHT'S  HIGH   NOON. 

T  T  NDER  the  heavy  sod  she  lies  — 

I  saw  them  close  her  beautiful  eyes  — 
She  lies  so  still,  and  she  lies  so  deep, 
That  all  of  them  think  she  is  fast  asleep. 

I,  only,  know  at  the  night's  high  noon 

She  comes  from  the  grave  they  made  too  soon 

I  see  the  light  of  her  cold,  bright  eyes, 

As  I  see  the  stars  in  the  wintry  skies. 

The  scornful  gleam  of  an  old  surprise 
Is  still  alive  in  those  wonderful  eyes  — 
And  the  mocking  lips  are  ripe  and  red, 
Smiling,  still,  at  the  words  I  said. 

She  mocks  me  now,  as  she  mocked  me  then  :  - 
'  Dead  is  dead,'  say  the  world  of  men  — 
But  I  know  when  the  stars  of  midnight  rise 
She  shines  on  me  with  her  cold,  bright  eyes. 


THE    VOICE   OF  SPRING.  1 1 


THE  VOICE   OF   SPRING. 

T  T  was  the  Voice  of  Spring  — 

That  faint,  far  cry  — 
And  birds  began  to  sing, 
And  winds  blew  by. 

And  up  the  blossoms  got  — 
They  knew  the  call :  — 

The  blue  Forget-me-not, 
The  Lily,  tall, 

And  Mayflowers,  pink  and  white 

As  any  lass, 
Sprang  up,  for  heart's  delight, 

Among  the  grass. 

The  happy  world  is  fain 

To  hail  the  feet 
Of  Spring,  who  comes  again, 

Spring  that  is  sweet. 

Let  us,  dear  Heart,  rejoice  — 

You,  Love,  and  I ; 
We,  too,  have  heard  the  Voice, 

Our  Spring  is  nigh. 


12  IN  EXTREMIS. 


IN  EXTREMIS. 

T  T  OW  can  I  go  into  the  dark, 

Away  from  your  clasping  hand, 
Set  sail  on  a  shadowy  bark 

For  the  shore  of  an  unknown  land  ? 

Your  eyes  look  love  into  mine ; 

Your  lips  are  warm  on  my  mouth ; 
I  drink  your  breath  like  a  wine 

Aglow  with  the  sun  of  the  South. 

You  have  made  this  world  so  dear  ! 

How  can  I  go  forth  alone 
In  the  bark  that  phantoms  steer 

To  a  port  afar  and  unknown  ? 

The  desperate  mob  of  the  dead, 
Will  they  hustle  me  to  and  fro, 

Or  leave  me  alone  to  tread 
The  path  of  my  infinite  woe  ? 

Shall  I  cry,  in  terror  and  pain, 
For  a  death  that  I  cannot  die, 

And  pray  with  a  longing  vain 
To  the  gods  that  mock  my  cry? 


IN  EXTREMIS.  13 

Oh,  hold  me  closer,  my  dear  ! 

Strong  is  your  clasp,  —  ay,  strong,  — 
But  stronger  the  touch  that  I  fear, 

And  the  darkness  to  come  is  long. 


14  WHEN  LOVE  IS    YOUNG. 


WHEN  LOVE  IS  YOUNG. 

T  N  Summer,  when  the  days  are  long, 
The  roses  and  the  lilies  talk  — 
Beneath  the  trees  young  lovers  walk, 

And  glad  birds  coo  their  wooing  song. 

In  Autumn,  when  the  days  are  brief, 
Roses  and  lilies  turn  to  dust  — 
Lovers  grow  old,  as  all  men  must, 

And  birds  shun  trees  that  have  no  leaf. 

Then,  youth,  be  glad,  in  love's  brief  day  ! 
Pluck  life's  best  blossom  while  you  can 
Time  has  his  will  of  every  man  — 

From  leafless  hearts  love  turns  away. 


AT  THE  END.  1 5 


AT  THE  END. 

rT'IME  was  when  Love's  dear   ways  I  used   to 

know  — 

That  time  's  at  end,  and  Love  has  passed  me  by  : 
Be  merciful,  dear  God,  and  let  me  die  — 

How  can  I  lift  my  head  from  this  last  blow? 

I  cannot  bear  this  life  whence  Faith  has  fled  — 
This  jostling  world  in  which  1  walk  alone  — 
Where  through  long,  lonesome  nights  old  mem- 
ories moan, 

With  human  voices,  that  the  dead  is  dead. 

I  cannot  bear  to  meet  the  day's  cold  eyes  — 
The  lonesome  nights  are  bitter  with  my  tears — 
Shuddering  I  face  the  empty  hideous  years, 

Sure  that  no  trumpet 's  call  will  bid  my  dead  arise. 

Since  Love  's  at  end,  be  merciful,  oh  God  !  .  .  .  . 
I  ask  no  new-born  hope,  but  only  this,  — 
That  I  may  die  as  died  that  vanished  bliss, 

And  hide  my  fruitless  pain  'neath  some  green  sod. 


1 6  AT  THE  END. 

Yet  there  —  if  the  strong  soul  in  me  live  on  — 
How  deep  soe'er  the  grave,  what  hope  of  rest? 
Still  shall  I  be  discrowned  and  dispossest, 

And  find  new  tortures  with  new  life  begun. 

The  Heavens  are  deaf!      No  answer  comes  to 

prayer  — 

I  face  the  cold  scorn  of  the  risen  day  — 
Since  Love  that  was  my  life  has  turned  away, 

And  left  me  for  companion  my  Despair. 


TO  SLEEP. 


TO  SLEEP. 

Sleep,  and  kiss  mine  eyelids  down ; 
^     Let  me  forget 

Hope  's  treachery,  and  Fortune  's  frown, 
And  Life 's  vain  fret. 

And  would  you  hold  me  fast,  dear  Sleep, 

I  need  not  wake, 
Since  they  wake  not  who  used  to  weep 

For  my  poor  sake. 


1 8  WHEN   YOU  ARE  DEAD. 


WHEN   YOU  ARE   DEAD. 

A   LOVER   SPEAKS. 

"\  \  7"HEN  you  are  dead,  my  dainty  dear, 

And  buried  'neath  the  grass, 
Will  something  of  you  linger  near, 
And  know  me  if  I  pass? 

Last  night  you  wore  a  wild,  sweet  rose, 
To  match  your  sweet,  wild  grace  — 

The  only  flower  on  earth  that  grows 
I  liken  to  your  face. 

I  would  that  I  that  rose  had  been, 

To  bloom  upon  your  breast ! 
One  golden  hour  I  should  have  seen  — 

What  matter  for  the  rest? 

To-day  you  will  not  grant  my  prayer, 

Or  listen  while  I  plead  — 
But  when  you  dwell  alone,  down  there, 

It  may  be  you  will  heed ; 

And  then  your  silent  heart  will  stir 
With  some  divine,  sweet  thrill, 

To  know  that  I,  your  worshipper, 
Through  death  am  faithful  still ; 


WHEN  YOU  ARE  DEAD.  19 

And  something  of  you,  lingering  near, 

May  bless  me  if  I  pass  — 
When  you  are  dead,  my  dainty  dear, 

And  buried  'neath  the  grass. 


2O  THE  BIRDS  AND  I. 


THE   BIRDS  AND   I. 

A    THOUSAND  voices  whisper  it  is  spring; 

Shy  flowers  start  up  to  greet  me  on  the  way, 
And  homing  birds  preen  their  swift  wings  and  sing 
The  praises  of  the  friendly,  lengthening  day. 

The  buds  whose  breath  the  glad  wind  hither  bears, 
Whose  tender  secret  the  young  May  shall  find, 

Seem  all  for  me  —  for  me  the  softer  airs, 

The  gentle  warmth,  wherewith  the  day  is  kind. 

Let  me  rejoice,  now  skies  are  blue  and  bright, 
And  the  round  world  pays  tribute  to  the  spring ; 

The  birds  and  I  will  carol  our  delight, 

And  every  breeze  Love's  messages  shall  bring. 

What  matter  though  sometimes  the  cup  of  tears 
We  drink,  instead  of  the  rich  wine  of  mirth? 

There  are  as  many  springs  as  there  are  years  ; 
And,  glad  or  sad,  we  love  this  dear  old  Earth. 


THE  BIRDS  AND  I. 


21 


Shall  we   come    back,  like   birds,  from  some    far 
sphere  — 

We  and  the  Spring  together  —  and  be  glad 
With  the  old  joy  to  hail  the  sweet  young  year, 

And  to  remember  what  good  days  we  had  ? 


22  THE  BIRDS  COME  BACK. 


THE   BIRDS   COME   BACK. 

'"PHE  birds  come  back  to  their  last  year's  nest, 

And  the  wild-rose  nods  in  the  lane  ; 
And  gold  in  the  east,  and  red  in  the  west, 
The  sun  bestirs  him  again. 

The  thief-bee  rifles  the  hawthorn  flower; 

And  the  breezes  softly  sigh 
For  the  columbine  in  my  lady's  bower, 

And  then  at  her  feet  they  die. 

And  all  the  pomp  of  the  June  is  here  — 

The  mirth  and  passion  and  song ; 
And  young  is  the  summer,  and  life  is  dear, 

And  the  day  is  never  too  long. 

Ah  !  birds  come  back  to  their  last  year's  nest, 
And  the  wild-rose  laughs  in  the  lane  ; 

But  I  turn  to  the  east  and  I  turn  to  the  west  — 
"  She  never  will  come  again." 


A    WINTER'S  DAWN.  23 


A   WINTER'S   DAWN. 

A  FTER  the  long  and  dreary  night 
**•      I  wake  to  the  blessed  morning  light, 

And  the  white  surprise  of  the  snow. 
Dreams  have  mocked  me  the  dark  hours  through  ; 
And  something  cried  on  the  winds  that  blew 
Across  the  country  that  dreamers  know. 

Back  from  the  memory-haunted  ways 
We  trod  together  in  by- gone  days, 

Came  a  voice  —  was  it  yours,  my  dear?  — 
Oh,  was  it  yours?     Did  I  hear  you  plead, 
As  I  heard  you  once,  when  I  would  not  heed  — 

In  that  far-off  land  —  in  that  by-gone  year  ? 

Wild  is  my  heart,  with  its  hopeless  pain  — 
Oh,  for  one  hour  of  the  past  again  !  — 

One  brief,  bright  hour  —  one  least  little  touch  ! 
Do  you  forgive  me  the  words  I  said, 
As  you  look  back  from  the  realm  of  the  dead  ?  — 

Much  is  forgiven,  when  one  loves  much. 

Grief  makes  wise  ;  for  I  knew  not  then, 
While  you  were  alive  in  the  world  of  men, 

How  the  heart  of  my  heart  would  starve  and 
die, 


24  A    WINTER'S  DAWN. 

When  you  should  be  gone,  beyond  my  reach, 
Where  the  death-tide  breaks  on  a  ghostly  beach, 
And  spirits  bereft  on  the  night  wind  cry. 

Spent  and  done  is  the  lonesome  night, 

And  the  sun  of  the  morning  is  strong  and  bright — 

The  sun  is  bright  and  the  sky  is  clear  — 
Yet  better  the  dark,  and  the  winds  that  blow 
Across  the  country  that  dreamers  know, 

And  the  voice  that  calls  from  a  by-gone  year. 


THE  LURE.  25 


THE   LURE. 

VI  WHENCE  did  the  music  come,  my  Dear, 

That  wooed  you  into  the  waiting  Night, 
The  song  you  heard  that  I  could  not  hear, 

The  song  you  followed,  my  Heart's  Delight? 

The  moon  was  full,  and  the  sky  was  clear — 
How  did  you  hide  from  my  longing  sight? 

Into  the  Dark  we  vainly  peer, 

But  I  looked  as  vainly  into  the  Light. 

Does  an  echo  come  to  my  listening  ear 

Of  music  dropped  from  some  far-off  height  ?. . 

Nay,  I  do  but  dream,  for  I  did  not  hear 
The  song  that  lured  you  into  the  Night. 


26  DEAD  MEN'S  HOLIDAY. 


DEAD  MEN'S  HOLIDAY. 

AFTER    SHIPKA. 

Every  one  kept  holiday  —  except  the  dead. 

VERESTSCHAGIN. 

A  \1  HO  dares  to  say  the  dead  men  were  not  glad, 
When   all   the  banners   flaunted  triumph 

there 

And  soldiers  tossed  their  caps  into  the  air, 
And  cheered,  and  cheered  as  they  with  joy  were 
mad? 

Proudly  the  General  galloped  down  the  line, 
And  shouted  thanks  and  praise  to  all  his  men, 
And  the  free  echoes  tossed  it  back  again, 

And  the  keen  air  stung  all  their  lips  like  wine. 

And  there,  in  front,  the  dead  lay  silently  — 

They  who    had  given   their  lives   the  fight   to 

win  — 
Were  their  ears  deaf,  think  you,  to  all  the  din, 

And  their  eyes  blinded  that  they  could  not  see  ? 

I  tell  you,  no  !     They  heard,  and  hearing  knew 
How  brief  a  thing  this  triumph  of  a  day, 
From  which  men  journey  on,  the  same  old  way, 

The  same  old  snares  and  pitfalls  struggle  through. 


DEAD  MEN'S  HOLIDAY.  2J 

Theirs  the  true  triumph,  for  their  fight  was  done  ; 

And   with   low   laughter   called   they,   each  to 
each  — 

"  \Ve  are  at  rest,  where  foemen  cannot  reach, 
And  better  this  than  fighting  in  the  sun." 


28  WHEN  YOU   WERE  HERE. 


WHEN  YOU  WERE  HERE. 


A 17"  HEN  you,  my  love,  were  here 
My  voice  was  full  and  loud  - 
I  sang  to  catch  your  ear  : 

Now  you  are  in  your  shroud 
I  cannot  sing  for  fear. 

That  vague  world  is  so  near  — 
Beyond  its  veil  of  cloud  — 

Where  you  abide,  my  dear, 
If  I  should  sing  too  loud 

Who  knows  but  you  would  hear? 

And  then  your  heart  would  break 
With  pity,  for  my  sake. 


BECAUSE  IT  IS   THE  SPRING.  2$ 


BECAUSE  IT  IS  THE  SPRING. 


I  will  be  glad  because  it  is  the  spring. 

AMY  LEVY. 

O  HALL  I  be  glad  because  the  year  is  young? 

The  shy,  swift-coming  green  is  on  the  trees ; 
The  jonquil's  passion  to  the  wind  is  flung ; 

I  catch  the  Mayflower's  breath  upon  the  breeze. 


The  birds,  aware  that  mating-time  has  come, 
Swell  their  plumed,  tuneful  throats  with  love  and 
glee; 

The  streams,  beneath  the  winter's  thraldom  dumb, 
Set  free  at  last,  run  singing  to  the  sea. 

Shall  I  be  glad  because  the  year  is  young? 

Nay  ;  you  yourself  were  young  that  other  year  : 
Though  sad  and  low  the  tender  songs  you  sung, 

My  fond  heart  heard  them,  and  stood  still  to 
hear. 

Can  I  forget  the  day  you  said  good -by, 

And  robbed  the  world  and  me  for  alien  spheres? 

Do  I  not  know,  when  wild  winds  sob  and  die, 
Your  voice  is  on  them,  sadder  than  my  tears  ? 


30  BECAUSE  IT  IS   THE  SPRING. 

You  come  to  tell  me  heaven  itself  is  cold,  — 
The  world  was  warm  from  which  you  fled 

away,  — 

And  moon  and  stars  and  sun  are  very  old  — 
And  you?  —  oh,  you  were  young  in  last  year's 
May : 

Now  you,  who  were  the  very  heart  of  spring, 
Are  old,  and  share  the  secrets  of  the  skies  ; 

But  I  lack  something  that  no  year  will  bring, 
Since  May  no  longer  greets  me  with  your  eyes. 


HER  PICTURE.  31 


HER  PICTURE. 

face  the  Greeks  had  worshipped,  have  you 
come 

With  me  to  make  your  home  ? 
You  look  at  me  with  those  deep,  haunting  eyes, 
And  all  my  life  replies. 

The  silence  thrills  with  vague,  bewitching  tone  ; 

I  am  no  more  alone  : 
I  who  have  sat  upon  the  shore  of  Time, 

Coaxing  my  lute  to  rhyme, 

Feel  in  my  heart,  at  impulse  of  your  will, 

Youth's  eager  music  thrill ; 
And  since  the  years  have  left  me  not  so  old, 

Now  their  long  tale  is  told, 

But  I  can  love  the  lovely,  and  be  glad, 

I  hide  the  cypress  wreath  I  had 
For  garland,  and  adorn  me  with  the  rose 

That  in  your  garden  glows. 


32  A    VIOLET  SPEAKS. 


A   VIOLET   SPEAKS. 

r\  PASSER-BY,  draw  near  ! 

Upon  a  grave  I  grow ; 

That  she  who  died  was  dear 

They  planted  me  to  show. 

Pluck  me  as  you  go  by  — 

I  am  her  messenger  ; 
With  her  sweet  breath  I  sigh ; 

In  me  her  pulses  stir. 

Through  these  my  quivering  leaves 
She  fain  would  speak  to  you  — 

She  whom  the  grave  bereaves 
Of  the  dear  life  she  knew. 

"  How  glad  I  was  up  there  !  " 
She  whispers  underground. 

"  Have  they  who  found  me  fair 
Some  other  fair  one  found? 

"  Has  he  who  loved  me  best 
Learned  Love's  deep  lore  again, 

Since  I  was  laid  to  rest 

Far  from  the  world  of  men  ? 


A    VIOLET  SPEAA'S.  33 

"  Nay  !     Surely  he  will  come 

To  dwell  here  at  the  last ; 
In  Death's  strange  silent  home 

My  hand  shall  hold  him  fast. 

"  Yet  would  that  he  might  know 

How  hard  it  is  to  bide 
In  darkness  here  below 

And  miss  him  from  my  side  ! 

"  Fain  would  I  send  my  soul 

To  lie  upon  his  breast, 
And  breathe  to  him  Love's  whole 

That  life  left  unconfest." 

Ah,  pluck  me,  passer-by  ! 

For  I  would  bear  her  breath  — 
Undying  Love's  own  sigh  — 

To  him  who  flees  from  Death. 


34     LEGEND   OF  A    TOMB  IN  FLORENCE. 


LEGEND  OF  A  TOMB  IN  FLORENCE. 

T  T  ERE  he  is,  in  marble,  waiting  by  a  tomb  — 
Strong-winged  for  flying,  yet,  the  legends 

say, 
Waiting  till  a  maiden  buried  here  below 

Shall  break  forth  and  join  him  once  again,  some 
day. 

Long  ago  she  lived  here,  in  this  Town  of  Flowers  — 
She  herself  a  blossom  brighter  than  the  rest  — 

Myrtles  blue  as  Heaven,  lilies  saintly  white, 

Ne'er  a  one  was  worthy  to    bloom   upon  her 
breast. 

Here  he  saw  and  loved  her  —  he,  the  gallant 
Knight, 

Loved  this  gracious  Lady,  fairer  than  the  May ; 
Loved  her,  and  won  her,  Flower  of  all  Delight  — 

Then  Death,  the  Robber,  stole  his  love  away. 

By  her  grave  he  waited,  years  on  weary  years, 
Sure  that  Love  would  sometime  triumph  over 

Fate, 

Till  at  length,  o'er-tired,  he  too  must  go  to  sleep  ; 
Then  he  bade  them  carve  him,  still  by  her  to 
wait  — 


LEGEND   OF  A    TOMB  IN  FLORENCE.     35 

But  with  wings  for  flying,  so  that  when  she  came 
From  her  narrow  chamber  he  could  bear  her 
high, 

Over  seas  and  mountains,  past  the  bars  of  Earth, 
To  a  spacious  dwelling  somewhere  in  the  sky. 

Still  the  summons  comes  not  —  long  their  silent 
dream  — 

But  the  watching  seraphs  pity  them,  I  know, 
And  the  tomb  will  open,  and  the  dead  will  rise, 

And  the  Knight  and  Lady  Heavenward  will  go. 


36  THE  SUMMER'S  QUEEN. 


THE   SUMMER'S  QUEEN. 

T    CHANT  the  praises  of  the  regal  June, 

Fair  Queen  of  all  the  Twelve  months'  circling 

sphere, 

Hands  full  of  roses,  and  sweet  lips  in  tune 
To  all  the  mirth  and  music  of  the  year. 

How  gay  and  glad  you  are,  fair  Lady  mine  ! 

How  proud  of  conquered  world  and  lavish  sun, 
And  air  that  sparkles  like  celestial  wine, 

And  laughing  streams  that  frolic  as  they  run  ! 

You  sow  the  fields  with  lilies  —  wake  the  choir 
Of  summer  birds  to  chorus  of  delight ; 

Yours  is  the  year's  deep  rapture  — yours  the  fire 
That  burns  the  West,  and  ushers  in  the  night  — 

The  short,  sweet  night  —  that  almost  can  deceive, 
So  bright  its  moon,  the  birds  to  sing  again, 

And  fit  their  morning  carols  to  the  eve, 

And  wake  the  midnight  with  the  noontide  strain. 

O  June,  fair  Queen  of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
The  affluent  year  will  hold  you  not  again  — 

Once,  only  once,  can  Youth  and  Love  be  ours, 
And  after  them  the  autumn  and  the  rain. 


BEND  LOW  AND  HARK.  37 


BEND   LOW  AND   HARK. 

T)  END  low  and  hark  with  me,  my  Dear, 

How  the  winds  sigh  ! 
A  voice  is  on  them  that  I  fear, 
It  brings  the  by-gone  days  so  near, 

Like  a  soul's  cry. 

Those  whom  we  bury  out  of  sight  — 

How  still  they  lie  ! 
Beyond  the  reaches  of  the  Light, 
Outside  the  realm  of  Day  and  Night  — 

Do  they  not  die  ? 

Shall  we  unbar  the  long-shut  door  — 

You,  Dear,  or  I  ?  — 
Could  Love  be  what  Love  was  before 
If  we  should  call  them  back  once  more, 

And  they  reply? 

Would  they  Life's  largess  claim  again? 

.  .  .  They  draw  too  nigh. 
Oh,  winds,  be  still !  You  shall  not  pain 
My  heart  with  that  long-hushed  refrain 
As  you  sweep  by. 


38  BEA^D  LOW  AND  HARK. 

The  Dead  have  had  their  shining  day  — 

Why  should  they  try 
To  listen  to  the  words  we  say  — 
To  breathe  their  blight  upon  our  May  — 
.  .  .  Yet  the  winds  sigh. 


A   SONG  FOR  KOSALYS.  39 


A  SONG   FOR  ROSALYS. 


T}  OSES  lean  from  their  slender  stalks  — 

Oh,  but  the  summer  is  just  begun  ! 
Through  her  garden  Rosalys  walks, 
And  the  world  is  warm  with  the  sun. 


Roses  and  maiden  and  year 

All  blooming  together  ; 
Heigho,  it  is  good  to  be  here, 

In  the  summer  weather  I 

Love  thrives  well  when  the  days  are  long, 

And  hearts,  like  the  summer,  are  young  and  gay. 

Words  turn  to  music,  and  hope  grows  strong ; 
But  the  best  is  what  we  can  never  say. 

Oh,  once,  just  once,  to  be  glad  once  more, 
To  listen  to  words  that  we  heard  of  old, 

To  steal  again  through  Youth's  open  door, 
And  thrill  to  the  story  that  then  was  told  ! 

But  never  twice  is  a  woman  young, 

And  never  twice  to  the  year  comes  June, 

And  Age  is  the  echo  of  songs  once  sung, 
With  never  again  the  time  or  the  tune. 


40  A  SONG  FOR  ROSALYS. 

Roses  and  maiden  and  year 
All  blooming  together  ; 

Heigho,  it  is  good  to  be  here, 
In  the  summer  weather ! 


THE   GENTLE    GHOST  OF  JOY.  4! 


THE   GENTLE   GHOST  OF  JOY. 

4 

A    LITTLE  while  ago  you  knew  not  I  was  I  — 
**•     A  little  while  ago  I  knew  not  you  were  you  - 
Now  the  swift  hours  have  run  by, 
And  all  the  world  is  new. 

I  hear  the  young  birds  sing 

In  the  rosy  light  of  morn ; 
Like  them  I  could  take  wing, 
And  sing  as  newly  born. 

A  little  while  from  now  I  shall  be  far  away  — 

A  little  while  from  now  your  face  I  shall  not  see- 
But  within  my  heart  a  ray 
To  light  the  dark  will  be. 

Do  you  not  know  that  pain 
So  sad,  so  sweet,  so  coy, 
That  comes,  and  comes  again, 
The  gentle  ghost  of  Joy  ? 

Ah,  that  shall  dwell  with  me, 
When  your  face  I  do  not  see  ! 


42    WHEN  I  WANDER  AWAY  WITH  DEA  TH. 


WHEN   I  WANDER   AWAY    WITH    DEATH. 

HP  HIS  Life  is  a  fleeting  breath, 

And  whither  and  how  shall  I  go, 
When  I  wander  away  with  Death 
By  a  path  that  I  do  not  know? 

Shall  I  find  the  throne  of  the  Moon, 

And  kneel  with  her  lovers  there 
To  pray  for  a  cold,  sweet  boon 

From  her  beauty  cold  and  fair? 

Or  shall  I  make  haste  to  the  Sun, 

And  warm  at  his  passionate  fire 
My  heart  by  sorrow  undone, 

And  sick  with  a  vain  desire  ? 

Shall  I  steal  into  Twilight- Land, 

When  the  Sun  and  the  Moon  are  low, 

And  hark  to  the  furtive  band 

Of  the  winds  that  whispering  go  — 

Telling  and  telling  again, 

And  crooning  with  scornful  mirth, 

The  secrets  of  women  and  men 
They  overheard  on  the  earth? 


WHEN  I  WANDER  AWAY  WITH  DEA TH.  43 

Will  the  dead  birds  sing  once  more, 
And  the  nightingale's  note  be  sad 

With  the  passion  and  longing  of  yore, 
And  the  thrushes  with  joy  go  mad? 

Nay,  what  though  they  carol  again, 

And  the  flowers  spring  to  life  at  my  feet, 

Can  they  heal  the  sting  of  my  pain, 
Or  quicken  a  dead  heart's  beat? 

What  care  I  for  Moon  or  for  stars, 

Or  the  Sun  on  his  royal  way  ? 
Only  somewhere,  beyond  Earth's  bars, 

Let  me  find  Love's  long-lost  day. 


44  HAS  LAVISH  SUMMER,  ETC. 


HAS  LAVISH  SUMMER  BROUGHT  THE 
ROSE? 

T  T  AS  lavish  summer  brought  the  rose  ? 

Why  did  my  heart  not  know, 
When  every  gossip  wind  that  blows 
Made  haste  to  tell  me  so ; 

And  all  the  birds  went  mad  with  glee, 
And  sang  from  morn  till  night ; 

And  then  the  stars  came  out  to  see 
What  made  the  world  so  bright  ? 

But  I  missed  something  from  the  time, 

And  so  I  did  not  guess 
The  meaning  of  the  summer's  rhyme, 

Or  the  warm  wind's  caress. 

Can  gladness  be  where  she  is  not? 

Can  roses  bud  and  blow? 
Does  all  the  world  but  me  forget 

What  now  we  must  forego? 

I  care  not  for  the  day's  kind  grace,  — 

The  magic  of  the  night,  — 
Since  with  them  comes  no  more  the  face 

That  was  my  heart's  delight. 


A  LOST  EDEN.  45 


A  LOST  EDEN. 

A  H,  it  was  a  lonely  place, 

Where  I  walked  to-day  — 
That  old  Garden  of  Delights, 
Where  we  used  to  stray. 

She  is  far,  whose  hand  I  held 

In  that  bygone  time  — 
Where  the  summer  roses  laughed 

Clings  the  winter's  rime. 

Helen,  stately,  Helen  fair, 
Where  are  you  to-night  1 

Do  you  gather  brighter  blooms. 
Tranced  in  new  delight  ? 

I  remember  how  you  stood  — 
You  who  wrought  my  woe  — 

Wiling  me  with  strange,  sweet  smile, 
When  the  sun  was  low ; 

And  I  lingered  by  your  side 

Till  the  stars  arose 
And  looked  down  with  curious  eyes 

On  that  Garden  Close. 


A   LOST  EDEN. 


Now  you  wander,  who  knows  where, 

Helen,  fair  and  glad, 
Deaf  to  whispers  from  the  past  — 

Why  should  I  be  sad  ? 


THE  MOOD   OF  A  MAN.  47 


THE  MOOD  OF  A  MAN. 

r"PHROUGH  the  silence  come  to  mock  me 

Ancient  questions  and  replies ; 
A  remembered  glory  blinds  me, 
From  the  shining  of  her  eyes. 

Though  this  Southern  sun  is  glowing, 

And  this  alien  sky  is  fair, 
Still  between  me  and  the  sunshine 

Waves  the  pale  gold  of  her  hair. 

In  these  unfamiliar  places 

Her  familiar  face  I  see,  — 
Scornful  in  its  mocking  beauty, 

Always  pitiless  for  me. 

But  her  scorn  no  longer  moves  me  — 
Reft  of  hope  is  free  from  fear  — 

So  her  very  coldness  warms  me, 
Her  remoteness  brings  me  near. 


48  JUNE'S  DAUGHTER. 


JUNE'S  DAUGHTER. 

"C^AIR  Lady  June,  proud  Queen  of  all  the  year, 
With  blossom-sceptre  in  thy  royal  hand  — 
Vaunt  not  thyself :  though  long  thy  days  and  dear. 
Thy   days  and  thee  Time's  sway  cannot  with- 
stand. 

Thy  splendid  sun  may  kindle  the  proud  morn ; 

And  the  high  noon  may  glow  with  love  of  thee  : 
Sunset  shall  laugh  thy  longest  day  to  scorn, 

And  mocking  stars  its  overthrow  shall  see. 

Roses  shall  wither,  though  their  lavish  praise 
The  nightingales  have  chanted  all  night  long : 

Their  fragrant  ghosts  shall  throng  the  silent  ways 
Those  swift-winged  laureates  once  thrilled  with 
song. 

And  thou,  fair  Maid,  bright  daughter  of  the  June, 
Dost  thou   not    know  thy   youth,  like   hers,  is 
brief?  — 

For  thee  the  glad  day,  and  the  bird's  glad  tune  ; 
And  then  the  waning  year,  the  wind-blown  leaf. 


JUNE'S  DAUGHTER.  49 

The  rising  stars  shall  mock  thy  setting  sun, 
And  watch  with  curious  eyes  thy  fallen  state  : 

Glad  month  !    glad   maid  !  —  for   both    the    swift 

sands  run  — 
And  not  for  month  or  maid  shall  Autumn  wait. 


50  A  SUMMER   WOOING. 


A  SUMMER  WOOING. 

'"PHE  wind  went  wooing  the  rose, 

For  the  rose  was  fair. 
How  the  rough  wind  won  her,  who  knows? 

But  he  left  her  there. 
Far  away  from  her  grave  he  blows  : 

Does  the  free  wind  care  ? 


/  HA  VE  CALLED  THEE  MANY  A  NIGHT.    5  I 


I  HAVE  CALLED  THEE   MANY  A  NIGHT. 

T   HAVE  called  thee  many  a  night, 

While  the  rest  were  sleeping ; 
Thou  wert  deaf  to  all  I  said, 
Heedless  of  my  weeping. 

Wilt  thou  never  hear  again, 

Howsoe'er  I  pray  thee? 
Then  must  I  go  forth  to  seek, 

On  thy  way  waylay  thee. 

Shall  I  find,  beyond  the  sun, 

Some  Celestial  Garden? 
Shall  I  kneel  there  at  thy  feet, 

Clamor  for  thy  pardon  ? 

Nay  ;    how  can  I  wait  so  long? 

Wilt  thou  not  draw  near  me  ? 
Winged  winds  are  steeds  of  thine  — 

Let  them  hither  bear  thee. 

Long  my  ear  waits  for  thy  words. 

How  can  I  forego  thee  ? 
Ah  !  for  one  brief  hour  come  back, 

Let  me  see  and  know  thee. 


52  THE   COQUETTE'S  DEFENCE. 


THE  COQUETTE'S  DEFENCE. 

"D  ED,  red  roses  glowing  in  the  garden, 

Rare  white  lilies  swaying  on  your  stalks, 
Did  you  hear  me  pray  my  sweet  love  for  pardon, 
Straying  with  him  adown  your  garden  walks  ? 

Ah,  you  glow  and  smile  when  the  sun  shines  upon 

you  — 

You  thrill  with  delight  at  the  tears  of  the  dew, 
And  the  wind  that  caresses  you  boasts  that  he 

won  you  — 

Do  you  think,  fair  flowers,  to  them  all  to  be 
true? 

Sun,  dew,  and  wind,  ah,  they  all  are  your  lovers  — 
Sun,  dew,  and  wind,  and  you  love  them  back 
again  — 

And  you  flirt  with  the  idle  white  moth  that  hovers 
Above  your  sweet  beauty,  and  laugh  at  his  pain. 

Must  I,  then,  be  deaf  to  the  voices  that  woo  me, 
And  because  I  can  hear  should  my  sweet  Love 
complain? 

Does  he  not,  in  forgiving  me,  stand  high  above  me, 
And  punish  my  fault  with  his  gentle  disdain  ? 


THE   COQUETTE'S  DEFENCE.  53 

You  trifle,  fair  flowers,  with  the   many,  but  one 

lord 
Woos  you,  and   wins   you,    and    conquers   the 

throng  — 
Dews  and  winds  cool  you,  for  warmth  you  turn 

sunward ; 
You  know  and  I  know  to  whom  we  belong. 


54  A    WHISPER    TO   THE  AfOOM 


A  WHISPER  TO  THE  MOON. 


"DEND  low,  O  Moon,  for  I  fain  would  tell 

My  secret  to  thee,  who  can  keep  it  well, 
And  not  to  the  stars  that  laugh  from  the  sky, 
And  mock  at  my  pain  as  they  pass  me  by. 

Bend  low,  pale  Moon  !    Her  face  is  like  thine- 
Like  thine  from  afar  I  can  see  it  shine, 
Now  hid  in  a  cloud,  in  a  halo  now  — 
She  is  thy  kindred ;  and  fickle  art  thou. 


IN  VENICE   ONCE,  55 


IN  VENICE  ONCE. 

TN  Venice  once  they  lived  and  loved  — 

Fair  women  with  their  red-gold  hair  - 
Their  twinkling  feet  to  music  moved, 
In  Venice  where  they  lived  and  loved, 
And  all  Philosophy  disproved, 

While  hope  was  young  and  life  was  fair, 
In  Venice  where  they  lived  and  loved. 


56  MY  QUEEN  OF  MAY. 


MY   QUEEN   OF   MAY. 

'"PHE  laughing  garlanded  May- time  is  here  ; 
The  glad  laburnum  whispers  at  the  gate : 
"  She  comes  !    She  comes  !    I  hear  her  step  draw 

near, 
My  Queen  of  Beauty,  Arbitress  of  Fate  !  " 

The  lilacs  look  at  her  —  "  She  is  more  fair 

Than  the  white  moon,  more  proud  than  the  strong 
sun ; 

Let  him  who  seeks  her  royal  grace  beware, 
To  be  unworthy  were  to  be  undone." 

One  wild  sweet  rose,  that  dreams  the  May  is  June, 
Blooms  for  her ;  and  for  her  a  mateless  bird 

Thrills  the  soft  dusk  with  his  entrancing  tune, 
Content  if  by  her  only  he  is  heard. 

A  curious  star  climbs  the  far  heaven  to  see 
What  She  it  is  for  whom  the  waiting  night, 

To  music  set,  trembles  in  melody ; 

Then,  by  her  beauty  dazzled,  flees  from  sight. 


MY  QUEEN  OF  MAY.  57 

And  I  —  what  am  I  that  my  voice  should  reach 
The  gracious  ear  to  which  it  would  aspire  ? 

She  will  not  heed  my  faltering  poor  speech ; 
I  have  no  spell  to  win  what  all  desire. 

Yet  will  I  serve  my  stately  Queen  of  May ; 

Yet  will  I  hope,  till  Hope  itself  be  spent. 
Better  to  strive,  though  steep  and  long  the  way, 

Than  on  some  weaker  heart  to  sink  content. 


58          WHERE  THE  NIGHT'S  PALE,  ETC. 


WHERE  THE   NIGHT'S   PALE   ROSES 
BLOW. 

A  H,  the  place  is  wild  and  sweet 
^*"  Where  my  darling  went :  — 
If  I  chase  her  flying  feet 

When  the  day  is  spent, 
Shall  I  find  her,  as  I  go 
Where  the  Night's  pale  roses  blow? 


AND  YET.  59 


AND   YET. 

T    ET  me  forget !     Why  should  I  seek  to  hold 

Thine  image  in  the  mirror  of  my  mind  ? 
For  him  who  can  no  way  to  please  thee  find 
To  house  such  tenant  were  indeed  too  bold  — 
Let  me  forget ! 

Do  I  not  know  the  magic  of  that  smile ; 

The  way  that  wayward  color  comes  and  goes, 
Fair  Lady  of  the  Lily  and  the  Rose, 

What  time  the  souls  of  men  thou  would'st  beguile  : 
Do  I  not  know? 

Thou  shalt  not  reign,  proud  Queen,  in  this  poor 

heart ; 

No  rash  oath  of  allegiance  will  I  swear  — 
Though  thou  art  beautiful  beyond  compare, 
Thine  art  is  nature,  and  thy  nature  art  — 
Thou  shalt  not  reign  ! 

And  yet,  and  yet  —  how  can  I  close  my  door? 
It  may  be  thou  art  weary  and  acold  :  — 
Come  in  !  Come  in  !   To  welcome  thee  is  bold  ; 

But  work  thy  will  —  I  am  thy  slave  once  more  — 
And  yet !     And  yet ! 


6O          /  HEARD  A  CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT. 


I   HEARD   A   CRY   IN   THE   NIGHT. 

T  HEARD  a  cry  in  the  night, 

And  swift  I  stole  from  my  bed, 
To  find  her,  my  heart's  delight, 
Once  more  in  the  lonesome  night, 
As  before  they  called  her  dead. 

I  pulled  the  curtains  away, 
I  bent  my  lips  to  her  cheek  : 

She  had  fled  from  the  glare  of  day, 

Afar  on  her  lonesome  way ; 

Night  came,  and  I  heard  her  speak. 

Again  I  harked  to  the  call 

Of  the  one  little  voice  so  dear ; 
No  matter  what  might  befall, 
I  had  found  her,  my  darling,  my  all, 
And  I  held  her  warm  and  near. 

I  laid  me  down  by  her  side  : 

I  cooed  like  a  mother  dove. 
Ah,  was  it  her  lips  that  replied, 
Or  only  the  wind  that  sighed, 
And  not  my  dainty,  my  love? 


I  HEARD  A   CRY  IN  THE  NIGHT.         6 1 

For  cruel  the  morning  came, 

And  mocking  the  blue  sky  smiled, 

And  the  sun  arose  like  a  flame, 

And  vainly  I  called  her  name, 
And  I  wept  in  vain  for  my  child. 


62  THE  NAME  ON  A   DOOR, 


THE  NAME  ON  A  DOOR. 

T  T  is  only  the  name  on  a  door  — 

Why  should  there  be  tears  in  my  eyes? 
But  I  never  shall  knock  there  more ; 
And  sorrow  is  not  overwise. 

I  used  to  go  up  the  stair 

When  the  day  was  wearing  late, 

And  come  on  her  unaware 

As  she  sat  and  dreamed  by  the  grate. 

And  then,  like  a  sudden  flame, 

My  welcome  flashed  from  her  eyes, 

And  her  lips  grew  warm  with  my  name, 
And  we  saw  Love's  star  arise. 

Sometimes  I  but  held  her  hand, 

And  never  a  word  said  we  — 
We  could  always  understand 

With  never  a  word,  you  see. 

Sometimes  she  chattered  like  mad, 
And  laughed  —  I  can  hear  her  now. 

Shall  I  ever  again  be  glad  ? 
I  think  I  've  forgotten  how. 


THE  NAME   ON  A   DOOR.  63 

It  is  only  the  name  on  a  door, 

Where  I  used  to  come  and  go ; 
But  never  to  knock  there  more  — 

Why,  the  world  seems  dead,  you  know  ! 


64  VAIN  WAITING. 


VAIN  WAITING. 


r~PHE  western  sky  has  begun  to  darken, 

The  sun  has  set,  and  the  wind  is  low ; 
And  waiting  alone  I  sit  and  hearken 
As  I  used  to  hearken,  ages  ago, 

For  a  voice  that  now  the  winds  know  only  — 
The  winds,  and  the  stars,  and  the  vacant  night 

A  presence  that  vanished  and  left  me  lonely, 
Reft  of  all  that  was  heart's  delight. 

I  wait  and  listen  —  no  step  draws  nigh  me  ; 

Full  your  world  is  —  empty  is  mine  ; 
Only  the  mocking  wind  sweeps  by  me, 

And  flings  me  never  a  word  or  a  sign. 


A    WISH.  65 


A  WISH. 


T  WISH  thee  length  of  days 

Filled  full  of  all  that's  best- 
Long  years  to  earn  thy  bays, 
Then  twilight  time  for  rest. 

I  wish  thee  love  and  joy  — 
Love  that  is  strong  and  sweet  - 

Gladness  without  alloy ; 
A  heart  with  thine  to  beat. 

And  then,  when  Earth  has  given 
Her  best  and  most  to  thee, 

At  last  I  wish  thee  Heaven  — 
Then  come  again  to  me  ! 


66  THE   COSTLIEST  GIFT. 


THE    COSTLIEST   GIFT. 

T    GIVE  you  a  day  of  my  life  — 

Treasure  no  gold  could  buy  — 
For  peasant  and  peer  are  at  one 

When  the  time  comes  to  die ; 
And  all  that  the  monarch  has, 

His  koh-i-noor  or  his  crown, 
He  would  give  for  one  more  day 

Ere  he  lay  his  dear  life  down. 

They  are  winged,  like  the  viewless  wind  — 

These  days  that  come  and  go  — 
And  we  count  them,  and  think  of  the  end, 

But  the  end  we  cannot  know  : 
The  whole  world  darkens  with  pain 

When  a  sunset  fades  in  the  west  — 
...  I  give  you  a  day  of  my  life, 

My  uttermost  gift  and  my  best. 


TO  HER    WHO  KNOWS.  6j 


TO   HER  WHO    KNOWS. 

T) ECAUSE  your  eyes  are  blue,  your  lips  are  red, 

And  the  soft  hair  is  golden  on  your  head, 
And  your  sweet  smiling  can  make  glad  the  day, 
And  on  your  cheeks  pink  roses  have  their  way, 
Should  I  adore  you? 

Since  other  maids  have  shining  golden  hair, 
And  other  cheeks  the  June's  pink  roses  wear, 
And  other  eyes  can  set  the  day  alight, 
And  other  lips  can  smile  with  youth's  delight, 
Why  bow  before  you  ? 

But  if  the  eyes  are  blue  for  me  alone, 
And  if  for  only  me  the  rose  has  blown, 
And  but  for  me  the  lips  their  sweet  smile  wear, 
Then  shall  you  mesh  me  in  your  golden  hair  — 
I  will  adore  you. 

And  as  my  saint,  my  soul's  one  shining  star, 
That  lights  my  darkness  from  its  throne  afar, 
As  lights  the  summer  moon  the  waiting  sea, 
With  all  I  am,  and  all  I  strive  to  be, 
I  '11  bow  before  you. 


68  IN  THE   OFFING. 


IN   THE    OFFING. 

A     GHOSTLY  ship  sails  on  a  ghostly  sea, 

And  bears  afar  an  anxious  company, 
Whose  dreams,  whose  hopes,  whose  constant  long- 
ings yearn 

For  some  fair  port  from  which  no  ships  return  — • 
Some  quiet  haven,  undisturbed  by  strife 
Of  vexing  surges  from  our  storm-vext  life  — 
Wind-driven  surges  from  our  wind-swept  life. 

My  longing  heart  sails  with  them  as  they  go, 
Anxious  as  they,  and  heavy  with  their  woe  ; 
Where  is  the  peaceful  shore  we  long  to  find  — 
The  waves  are  stormy,  and  the  path  is  blind  — 
The  distant  sky  shuts  in  the  distant  sea  — 
What  star  of  promise  holds  the  dark  for  me  ? 
W7hat  star  of  promise  holds  the  dark  for  thee  ? 


WITH  A   BOOK.  69 


WITH  A  BOOK. 

V/'OU  fain  would  know  the  story  of  my  life? 

Nay,  then  you  shall  divine  it  from  my  song  — 
The  weariness  of  ever- baffled  strife; 

The  Joy  that  fled,  the  Grief  that  lingers  long ; 

The  barren  shore,  laved  by  the  bitter  tide ; 

The  vanity  of  all  beneath  the  sun  ; 
The  longing,  that  Fate's  mockery  denied ; 

The  triumph  unachieved  ;  the  goal  unwon ; 

The  fleeting  moments,  vague  and  sweet  and  dear 
As  violets  upon  a  grave  that  grow :  — 

Is  not  the  whole  vain  story  written  here? 

Then  turn  these  leaves,  and  you  my  soul  shall 
know. 


A  Sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument  — 
Memorial  from  the  Soul's  Eternity 
To  one  dead,  deathless  hour. 

D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 


To  unpathed  waters,  undreamed  shores. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


LOVE'S  ROSARY.  75 


I. 
LAND   OF   MY   DREAMS. 

SPACIOUS,  splendid  Land  that  no  man  knows, 

Whose  mystery  as  the  tideless  sea  is  deep, 
Whose  beauty  haunts  me  in  the  courts  of  sleep  ! 
What  whispering  wind  from  thy  hid  garden  blows, 
Sweet  with  the  breath  of  Love's  celestial  rose? 
What  field  hast  thou  that  mortal  may  not  reap  ? 
What  soft  enchantment  do  those  meadows  keep 
Through   which   Life's   bright,    unfathomed    river 
flows? 

I  can  resist  thy  charm  when  noon  is  high ; 

Mine  ears  are  deafened  while  earth's   clamors 

rave; 

But  now  the  sun  has  set,  the  winds  are  low, 
And  Night  with  her  proud  company  draws  nigh, 
Thy  spell  prevails,  thy  mystic  joys  I  crave  — 
Land  of  my  Dreams,  I  will  arise  and  go. 


7  6  LOVE'S  ROSARY. 


II. 
THOUGH   WE   WERE     DUST. 

T  N  the  vast  realms  of  unconjectured  space, 

Where  devious  paths  eternally  outspread, 
Where  farthest  stars  their  mighty  marches  tread, 

And  unknown  suns  through  unknown  systems  pace, 

What  power  can  give  our  longing  hearts  the  grace 
To  follow  feet  that  long  ago  have  fled, 
Among  the  thronging  populace  of  the  dead 

To  find  the  welcome  of  the  one  dear  face  ? 

Nay  !   Let  the  souls  throng  round  us  !  I  am  I, 
And  you  are  you  !     We  should  not  vainly  seek  : 
Would  you  not  hear,  though  faint  and  far  my 

call? 

Nay,  were  we  dust,  and  had  no  lips  to  speak, 
Our  very  atoms  on  the  winds  blown  by 

Would  meet,  and  cling,  whatever  might  befall. 


LOVE'S  ROSARY.  77 


III. 
THE   ROSE   OF   DAWN. 

T  T  OW  mockingly  the  morning  dawns  for  me, 
Since    thou    art    gone    where    no  pursuing 

speech, 

No  prayer,  no  farthest-sounding  cry  can  reach  ! 
I  call,  and  wait  the  answer  to  my  plea  — 
But  only  hear  the  stern,  dividing  sea, 
That  pauses  not,  however  I  beseech, 
Breaking,  and  breaking,  on  the  distant  beach 
Of  that  far  land  whereto  thy  soul  did  flee. 

Do  happy  suns  shine  on  thee  where  thou  art? 
And  kind  stars  cheer  with  friendly  ray  thy  night? 
And  strange  birds  wake  with  music  strange  thy 

morn? 
This  beggared  world,  where  thou  no  more  hast 

part, 

Misapprehends  the  morning's  young  delight, 
And  the  old  grief  makes  the  new  day  forlorn. 


7  8  LOVE'S  ROSARY. 


IV. 
THOU   REIGNEST  STILL. 

HPHOU  liv'st  and  reignest  in  my  memory, 

Discrowned  of  earth,  but  crowned  still  in  the 

soul 

Subject  to  thee  from  pole  to  utmost  pole  :  — 
This  is  the  kingdom  thou  hast  still  in  fee, 
Though  Silence  and  the  Night  have  hidden  thee  — 
King,  crowned  in  joy,  and  crowned  again  in  dole, 
Sovereign  and  master  of  my  being's  whole, 
My  heart,  and  life,  and  all  there  is  of  me. 

It  is  thy  breath  I  breathe  upon  the  air; 

Thou  shinest  on  me  with  the  stars  of  night ; 
Thou  risest  for  me  with  the  morning  sun ; 
I  enter  Dreamland's  Court  and  find  thee  there, 
And  finding  quiver  with  the  old  delight, 

When  life  and  love  and  hope  had  just  begun. 


LOVE'S  ROSARY.  79 


V. 

TIME'S   PRISONER. 

r~PIME  was,  beloved,  when  from  this  far-off  place 
My  words  could  reach  thee,  and  thine  own 

reply  — 

Now  thou  art  gone,  and  ray  heart's  longing  cry 
Pursues  thee,  as  some  runner  runs  his  race  — 
Cleaves  like  a  bird  the  emptiness  of  space, 
And  falls  back,  baffled,  from  the  pitiless  sky. 
Ah,  why  with  thee,  so  dear,  did  I  not  die  ? 
Why  should  I  live  benighted  of  thy  face  ? 

Thou  wilt  have  sped  so  far  before  I  come  — 
How  shall  I  ever  win  to  where  thou  art  ? 

Or,  if  I  find  thee,  shall  I  not  be  dumb  — 

With  voiceless  longing  break  my  silent  heart  ? 

Nay  !  Surely  thou  wilt  read  mine  eyes,  and  know 

That  for  thy  sake  all  heaven  I  would  forego. 


8O  LOVE'S  ROSARY. 


VI. 

"  HAVE  I  NOT  LEARNED  TO  LIVE  WITH- 
OUT THEE  YET?" 

T  T  AVE  I  not  learned  to  live  without  thee  yet  ?  — 
Years  joined  to  scornful  years  have  mocked 

my  pain ; 

Light-footed  joys  have  proffered  transient  gain, 
And  smiled  on  me,  and  wooed  me  to  forget ; 
And  lesser  loves  my  pathway  have  beset 

With  cheap  enticements.     Since  my  heart  was 

fain, 

Sometimes  I  listened,  but  their  boast  was  vain,  — 
They  had  no  coin  to  pay  the  old  time's  debt. 

And  thou?     Thou  art  at  rest,  and  far  away 
From  all  the  vain  delusions  of  the  hour ; 

Like  some  forsaken  child,  I  weep  by  night, 
While  thou  rejoicest  in  thy  perfect  day  : 

Thine    is    the    triumph,    thine    the    immortal 

power,  — 
Art  thou  too  glad  to  mourn  for  earth's  delight  ? 


LOl'E'S  ROTARY.  8 1 


VII. 

A   HEAVENLY   BIRTHDAY. 

"pvOST  thou  take  note  and  say,  in  thy  far  place, 
"  This  birthday  is  the  first  since  that  dark 

hour 
When   on   my   breast  was  laid    Love's  funeral 

flower?" 

Thou  hast  won  all,  in  the  immortal  race  — 
Conquerer  of  life  and  death  and  time  an;l  space  — 
And  I,  a  lagging,  beaten  runner,  cower, 
While   roun  1  me   mocking  memories  jeer  and 

lower, 
And  from  thy  far  world  comes  no  helpful  grace. 

Thou  dost  not  whisper  that  those  heights  are  cold 
Where  I  walk  not  beside  thee,  and  the  night 

Of  death  is  long.     Nay,  I  am  over-bold  ! 

Thou  sittest  comforted  and  healed  with  light, 

And  young  and  glad  ;  and  I  who  wait  am  old  ; 
Yet  shall  I  find  thee,  even  in  Death's  despite. 


82  LOVE'S  ROSARY 


VIII. 
LETHE. 

What  shall  assuage  the  unforgotten  pain, 
And  teach  the  unforgetftil  to  forget  ? 

D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 

T    TIRE  of  phantoms  that  my  heart  distrain, 
That  claim  their  own,  and  will  not  let   me 

rest, 
That  mock  me  with  old  laughter,  long-hushed 

jest, 

And  of  the  love  I  promised  once  are  fain. 
Shall  I  not  seek  some  opiate  for  pain, 

And  drug  the  ceaseless  ache  within  my  breast  — 
Bid    Memory     "  Hence  !  "    as   an    unwelcome 

guest, 
And  smite  the  joyous  chords  of  Life  again? 

Nay  !  Then  must  I  forbid  the  dead  to  speak, 
And  do  the  holy  past  unholy  wrong  — 

Disown  its  claim  —  refuse  to  pay  its  debt  — 
All  Heaven  would  look  with  scorn  on  one  so  weak  ! 
I  choose,  instead,  to  suffer  and  be  strong  — 
Give  me  no  Lethe  !     I  will  not  forget. 


LOVE'S  ROSARY.  83 


IX. 
A   SILENT  VOICE. 

'"THEY  bid  me  welcome  in  the  proud  New  Year, 

Crowned  with  delight,  his  Minister  the  Sun  — 

Monarch,  whose  sumptuous  reign  has  just  begun  : 

Nay,  I  am  deaf  —  their  shouts  I  do  not  hear  — 

I  miss  a  voice  that  long  ago  was  dear ; 

A  tender  voice,  whose  lightest  call  had  won 
My  ear,  my  heart,  my  life,  till  life  were  done  :  — 

That  voice  is  silent  —  theirs  I  will  not  hear. 

A  little  bird  that  finds  the  winter  cold 

Comes  out,  and  looks  at  me,  and  sings  of  him 
Who    made    the  vanished  summers   warm ;    and, 

bold 
With   sorrow,  calls   the    New    Year's    splendor 

dim. 

Nay,  bird,  he  is  gone  far  who  used  to  sing ; 
And  days,  and  months,    and   years   no    message 
bring. 


84  LOVES  ROSARY. 


X. 

WERE    BUT    MY    SPIRIT    LOOSED    UPON 
THE   AIR. 

"\1,TERE  but  my  spirit  loosed  upon  the  air  — 

By  some  High  Power  who  could    Life's 

chains  unbind, 

Set  free  to  seek  what  most  it  longs  to  find  — 
To  no  proud  Court  of  Kings  would  I  repair : 
I  would  but  climb,  once  more,  a  narrow  stair, 
When  day  was  wearing  late,  and  dusk  was  kind  ; 
And  one  should  greet  me  to  my  failings  blind, 
Content  so  I  but  shared  his  twilight  there. 

Nay  !  well  I  know  he  waits  not  as  of  old  — 
I  could  not  find  him  in  the  old-time  place  — 

I  must  pursue  him,  made  by  sorrow  bold, 

Through  worlds  unknown,  in   strange  celestial 
race, 

Whose  mystic  round  no  traveller  has  told, 
From  star  to  star,  until  I  see  his  face. 


Hife  anti  Hotoe. 


The  Accumulated  Past. 

D.  G.  ROSSETTI. 


A  T  MIDSUMMER.  87 


AT   MIDSUMMER. 

'""PHE  spacious  Noon  enfolds  me  with  its  peace  — 
The  affluent  Midsummer  wraps  me  round  — 
So  still  the  earth  and  air,  that  scarce  a  sound 
Affronts  the  silence,  and  the  swift  caprice 
Of  one  stray  bird's  lone  call  does  but  increase 
The  sense  of  some  compelling  hush  profound, 
Some  spell  by  which  the  whole  vast  world  is 

bound, 
Till  star-crowned  Night  smile  downward  its  release. 

I  sit  and  dream  —  midway  of  the  long  day  — 
Midway  of  the  glad  year  —  midway  of  life  — 
My  whole  world  seems,  indeed,  to  hold    its 

breath  :  — 
For  me  the  sun  stands  still  upon  his  way  — 

The  winds  for  one  glad  hour  remit  their  strife  — 
Then  Day,  and  Year,  and  Life  whirl  on  toward 
Death. 


THE  LIFE-MASK  OF  KEATS. 


THE    LIFE-MASK   OF    KEATS.1 

TDOET  to  poet  gave  this  mask,  of  him 

Who  sang  the  song  of  Rapture  and  Despair ; 
Who  to  the  Nightingale  was  kin ;  aware 
Of  all  the  Night's  enamouring  —  the  dim 
Strange  ecstasy  of  light  at  the  moon's  rim  ; 
The  unheard  melodies  that  subtly  snare 
1'he  listening  soul  —  Pan's  wayward  pipes  that 

dare 
To  conjure  shapes  now  beautiful,  now  grim. 

He  who  this  life-mask  prized  so  tenderly 

Might  not  behold  the  semblance  that  it  wore, 

The  charm  ineffable  —  now  sweet,  now  sad  : 
But  well  he  knew  what  loveliness  must  be 
Upon  the  face  of  Keats  for  evermore, 

And  with  his  spirit's  gaze  saw  and  was  glad. 


1  Given  to  the  blind  poet,  Philip  Bourke  Marston,  by  Richard 
Watson  Gilder. 


SOUL    TO  BODY.  89 


SOUL  TO   BODY. 

,  long-time  Friend,  'tis  many  a  year  since  we 
Took  hands  together,  and  came  through  the 

morn, 

When  thou  and  day  and  I  were  newly  born  — 
And  fair  the  future  looked,  and  glad  and  free  — 
A  year  as  long  as  whole  Eternity  — 

And  full  of  roses  with  no  stinging  thorn, 
And  full  of  joys  that  could  not  be  outworn ; 
And  time  was  measureless  for  thee  and  me. 

Long  have  we  fared  together,  thou  and  I : 

Thou   hast  grown   dearer,  as  old   friends  must 
grow  : 

Small  wonder  if  I  dread  to  say  good-by 
When  our  long  pact  is  over,  and  I  go 

To  enter  strange,  new  worlds  beyond  the  sky, 
Called  by  that  Power  to  whom  no  man  saith  No. 


90  AT  REST. 


AT  REST. 

O  HALL  I  lie  down  to  sleep,  and  see  no  more 
The  splendid  pageantry  of  earth  and  sky  — 

The  proud  procession  of  the  stars  sweep  by ; 
The  white  moon  sway  the  sea,  and  woo  the  shore ; 
The  morning  lark  to  the  far  Heaven  soar ; 

The  nightingale  with  the  soft  dusk  draw  nigh  ; 

The  summer  roses  bud,  and  bloom,  and  die  — 
Will  Life  and  Life's  delight  for  me  be  o'er? 

Nay  !  I  shall  be,  in  my  low  silent  home, 
Of  all  Earth's  gracious  ministries  aware  — 
Glad  with  the  gladness  of  the  risen  day, 
Or  gently  sad  with  sadness  of  the  gloam, 

Yet  done  with  striving,  and  foreclosed  of  care  — 
At  rest  —  at  rest  !     What  better  thing  to  say  ? 


SHALL  I  COMPLAIN  1  91 


SHALL    I   COMPLAIN? 

HALL  I  complain  because  the  feast  is  o'er, 
And  all  the  banquet  lights  have  ceased  to 

shine  ? 

For  joy  that  was,  and  is  no  longer  mine ; 
For  love  that  came  and  went,  and  comes  no  more ; 
For  hopes  and  dreams  that  left  my  open  door ; 
Shall  I,  who  hold  the  past  in  fee,  repine?  .  .  . 
Nay !  there  are  those  who  never  quaffed  life's 

wine  — 
That  were  the  unblest  fate  one  might  deplore. 

To  sit  alone  and  dream,  at  set  of  sun, 

When  all  the  world  is  vague  with  coming  night  — 

To  hear  old  %Toices  whisper,  sweet  and  low, 
And  see  dear  faces  steal  back,  one  by  one, 
And  thrill  anew  to  each  long-past  delight  — 
Shall   I   complain,   who   still  this  bliss   may 
know  ? 


92  PARTING. 


PARTING. 

"~P1S  you,  not  I,  have  chosen.     Love,  go  free! 

No  cry  of  mine  shall  hold  you  on  your  way. 
I  wept  above  the  dead  Past  yesterday  :  — 

Let  it  lie  now  where  all  fair  dead  things  be, 

Beneath  the  waves  of  Time's  all-whelming  sea. 
Forget  it  or  remember —  come  what  may  — 
The  time  is  past  when  one  could  bid  it  stay : 

What  boots  it  any  more  to  you  or  me  ? 

It  was  my  life  —  what  matter?  —  I  am  dead, 
And  if  I  seem  to  move,  or  speak,  or  smile, 

If  some  strange  round  of  being  still  I  tread 
And  am  not  buried,  for  a  little  while, 

Yet,  look  you,  Love,  I  am  not  what  I  seem  : 

I  died  when  died  my  faith  in  that  dear  dream. 


VAIN  FREEDOM.  93 


VAIN    FREEDOM. 

O  O  I  am  free  whom  Love  held  thrall  so  long  ! 

Now  will  I  flaunt  my  colors  on  the  air, 
And  with  triumphal  music  scale  heaven's  stair, 

Till  all  those  shining  choirs  shall  hush  their  song, 

And  hark  in  silent  wonder  to  the  strong, 
Compelling  harmonies  that  boldly  dare 
To  soar  so  high,  and  make  the  blest  aware 

That,  free  like  them,  I  stand  their  ranks  among. 

Nay !    but  my   triumph    mocks    me,  —  chills   the 

day: 
Bound  would  I  be,  and  suffer,  and  be  sad, 

Rather  than  free,  and  with  no  heart  to  ache. 
Strong  God  of  Love,  still  hold  me  in  thy  sway  ! 
Give  back  my  human  pain ;  let  me  go  mad 
With  the  old  dreams,  old  tortures,  for  Love's 
sake. 


94  THE  NEW  YEAR  DAWNS. 


THE   NEW  YEAR   DAWNS. 

New  Year  dawns  —  the  sun  shines  strong 
and  clear; 

And  all  the  world  rejoices  and  is  gay ; 
The  city-loving  birds  from  spray  to  spray 
Flit  busily  and  twitter  in  my  ear 
Their  little  frozen  note  of  wintry  cheer  : 

From  ruddy  children  with  the  snow  at  play 
Ring  peals  of  laughter  gladder  than  in  May, 
While  friend  greets  friend,  with  "Happy  be  thy 
Year  !  " 

So  would  I  joy,  if  Thou  wert  by  my  side  — 

So  would  I   laugh,  if  Thou  couldst  laugh  with 
me  — 

But,  left  alone,  in  Darkness  I  abide, 

Mocked  by  a  Day  that  shines  no  more  on  thee  : 

From  this  too  merry  world  my  heart  I  hide  — 
My  New  Year  dawns  not  till  thy  face  I  see. 


ASPIRA  TION.  95 


ASPIRATION. 


"OREAK,  ties  that  bind  me  to  this  world  of  sense, 
Break,    now,  and   loose   me   on   the  upper 

air :  — 

Those  skies  are  blue ;  and  that  far  dome  is  fair 
With  prophecy  of  some  divine,  intense, 
Undreamed-of  rapture.     Ah,  from  thence 
I  catch  a  music  that  my  soul  would  snare 
With  its  strange  sweetness  ;  and  I  seem  aware 
Of  Life  that  waits  to  crown  this  life's  suspense. 

I  see  —  I  hear  —  yet  to  this  world  I  cling  — 
This  fatal  world  of  passion  and  unrest  — 

Where  loss  and  pain  jeer  at  each  human  bliss, 
As  autumn  mocks  the  fleetness  of  the  spring, 
And  each  morn  sees  its  sunset  in  the  west  — 
Break,  ties  that  bind  me  to  a  world  like  this  ! 


96  OH,    TRAVELLER. 


OH,  TRAVELLER  BY  UNACCUSTOMED 
WAYS. 

,  traveller  by  unaccustomed  ways  — 
Searcher   among   new  worlds  for  pleasures 

new  — 

Art  thou  content  because  the  skies  are  blue, 
And  blithe  birds  thrill  the  air  with  roundelays, 
And  the  fair  fields  with  sunshine  are  ablaze  ? 

Dost  thou  not  find  thy  heart's-ease  twined  with 

rue, 
And  long  for  some  dear  bloom  on  earth  that 

grew  — 
Some  wild,  sweet  fragrance  of  remembered  days? 

I  send  my  message  to  thee  by  the  stars  — 
Since  other  messenger  I  may  not  find 

Till  I  go  forth  beyond  these  prisoning  bars, 
Leaving  this  memory-haunted  world  behind, 

To  seek  thee,  claim  thee,  wheresoe'er  thou  be, 

Since  Heaven  itself  were  empty,  lacking  thee. 


GREAT  LOVE.  97 


GREAT  LOVE. 
I. 

GREAT   LOVE   IS   HUMBLE. 

TT  UMBLE  is  Love,  for  he  is  Honor's  child  : 
•*•          He  knows  the  worth  of  her  he  does  adore, 
And  that  high  reckoning  humbles  him  the  more  : 
By  her  dear  sweetness  from  his  pain  beguiled, 
He  would  be  proud  because  her  look  is  mild ; 
But  all  the  while  he  scans  the  oft-told  score, 
And  his  imperfectness  must  still  deplore, 
Abashed  no  less  because  on  him  she  smiled. 

To  be  allowed  to  love  is  Love's  dear  prize : 
To  lay  his  homage  at  Her  royal  feet  — 

To  enter  thus  the  true  heart's  paradise, 
The  name  of  names  forever  to  repeat, 

And  read  his  sentence  in  her  answering  eyes  — 
Love  should  be  humble  —  his  reward  is  meet. 


98  GREAT  LOVE. 

II. 
GREAT   LOVE    IS   PROUD. 

For  very  humbleness  Great  Love  is  proud  : 

The  round  world  were  a  tribute  thrice  too  small 
To  render  to  the  rightful  queen  of  all  — 

Yet  why  should  Love's  least  gift  be  disavowed  — 

If  once  her  royal  head  the  queen  has  bowed, 
Lending  her  gracious  ear  to  the  low  call 
Of  him  whose  glory  is  to  be  her  thrall  — 

Who  only  prays  his  worship  be  allowed  ? 

Once  to  have  known  her  fairness  —  who  is  fair 
Beyond  the  dreamer's  dream,  the  painter's  art  — 

This,  only  this,  were  bliss  above  compare  : 
But  if  he  find  the  gateway  to  her  heart, 
Shall  he  not,  like  a  king,  be  set  apart 

Who  for  one  royal  moment  entered  there? 


HER    YEARS.  99 


HER   YEARS. 


\7EARS  come  and  go,  each  bringing  in  his  train, 
Spring  fair  with  promise,  Summer  glad  with 

bloom, 

Fruit-bearing  Autumn,  and  the  Winter's  gloom ; 
But  years  and  seasons  march  for  Her  in  vain, 
Since  still  she  strings  her  rosary  of  pain, 

Catching  from  far  some  subtle,  lost  perfume, 
Some  scent  of  roses  dying  on  a  tomb, 
Unfreshened  by  Spring's  dew  or  Summer's  rain. 

Why  change  the  seasons  when  She  cannot  change  ? 

For  pomp  of  morn,  high  noon,  or  setting  sun 
What  cares  she  ?  They  are  powerless  to  estrange 

Her  soul  from  Grief,  who,  till  her  day  is  clone, 
Companions  her  wherever  she  may  range, 

And  makes  her  New  Years  old,  ere  yet  begun. 


IOO  MIDWINTER  FLOWERS. 


MIDWINTER   FLOWERS. 

TO    E.    C.    S. 

T    HOLD  you  to  my  lips  and  heart,  fair  flowers, 

Dear,  first-begotten  children  of  the  sun  — 
Whose  summer  lives  in  winter  were  begun ; 

Sweet  aliens  from  the  warm  June's  pleasant  bowers, 

Mocked  at  by  cruel  winds  in  desolate  hours 
Through  which  the  sands  of  winter  slowly  run  : 
I  touch  your  tender  petals,  one  by  one, 

And  miss  no  beauty  born  of  summer  showers. 

I  have  a  friend  who  to  Life's  winter  days 

Will  bring  the  warmth  and  splendor  of  the  June  ; 

From  him  ye  come,  yet  need  not  speak  his  praise, 
Since  on  my  heart  is  written  well  that  rune, 

And  the  fine  fragrance  of  his  gentle  deeds 

Reveals  his  presence  'mong  earth's  common  weeds. 


HER  PRESENCE.  IOI 


HER   PRESENCE. 

T  LONG  in  vain  by  day,  but  when  the  night 

With  all  its  jewels  stars  the  waiting  sky, 
And  vagrant  fireflies  like  stray  souls  flit  by, 

She  seeks  me  in  the  tender  waning  light, 

And  sits  beside  me  there,  a  Presence  white ;  — 
Her  eyes  yearn  for  me,  and  her  dear  lips  sigh, 
But  if  to  clasp  her  cold  soft  hands  I  try 

The  shadows  deepen,  and  she  fades  from  sight. 

O  lost  and  dear  !  —  by  what  strange,  devious  way 
Does  she  escape?  for  I,  too,  fain  would  flee 

From  all  the  hollow  pageantry  of  life, 
And  with  her  through  immortal  meadows  stray. 
The  free  winds  mock  my  quest,  stars  laugh  to  see, 
And  I  wait  helpless  till  Death  end  the  strife. 


IO2  WHEN   WE   CONFRONT. 


WHEN    WE    CONFRONT    THE    VASTNESS 
OF  THE  NIGHT. 

"\  "\7HEN  we  confront  the  Vastness  of  the  Night, 

And  meet  the  gaze  of  her  eternal  eyes, 
How  trivial  seem  the  garnered  gains  we  prize  — 

The  laurel  wreath  we  flaunt  to  envious  sight ; 

The  flower  of  Love  we  pluck  for  our  delight ; 
The  mad,  sweet  music  of  the  heart,  that  cries 
An  instant  on  the  listening  air,  then  dies  — 

How  short  the  day  of  all  things  dear  and  bright ! 

The  Everlasting  mocks  our  transient  strife  ; 

The  pageant  of  the  Universe  whirls  by 
This  little  sphere  with  petty  turmoil  rife  — 

Swift  as  a  dream  and  fleeting  as  a  sigh  — 
This  brief  delusion  that  we  call  our  life, 

Where  all  we  can  accomplish  is  to  die. 


ON  MEETING  A  SAILING  VESSEL.      1 03 


ON    MEETING  A   SAILING  VESSEL  IN 
MID-OCEAN. 

CT  HE  moves  on  grandly  'twixt  the  sea  and  sky, 
Like  some  gigantic  bird  from  foreign  shore ; 

Gray  mist  behind  her  and  gray  mist  before, 
Riding  upon  the  waters  royally. 
Salt  winds  caress  her,  as  they  urge  her  by, 

And  we  who  watch  shall  see  her  nevermore ; 

For  on  she  goes,  to  where  the  breakers  roar 
Round  some  far  coast  we  never  may  descry. 

So  on  Life's  tide  we  meet  an  unknown  soul, 
And  catch  a  passing  vision  of  its  grace  ; 

Just  seen,  then  vanished,  leaving  us  to  yearn 
With  vain  desire  to  follow  to  its  goal 
The  revelation  of  the  radiant  face  — 
Then  heartsick  to  our  solitude  we  turn. 


IO4  MIDNIGHT  AT  SEA. 


MIDNIGHT  AT  SEA. 

'"THROUGH  the  deep  stillness  of  the  awful  night, 

I  heard  the  clamor  of  the  ship's  great  bell  — 
A    voice    cried :    "  Twelve    o'clock,   and    all    is 

well !  " 

Then  silence,  and  the  solemn,  watching  light 

Of  the  white  moon,  on  billows  wild  and  white 

That  yielded,  to  her  magical,  dear  spell, 

The  stormy  hearts  no  lesser  charm  could  quell  — 

Slaves  of  her  lamp,  and  powerless  to  affright. 

Ah,  when  across  the  wide,  unfathomed  sea 

Which  no  chart  maps,  whose  depth  no  plummet 

knows, 

To  some  dim,  unconjectured  shore  we  steer, 
Through  that  wild  night,  into  whose  depths  we  flee 
Farther  than  any  wind  from  this  world  blows, 
May  cry  of  "  All  is  well  "  our  midnight  cheer  ! 


INTER  MANES.  10$ 


INTER   MANES. 

T  N  the  dim  watches  of  the  midmost  night, 

A  ghost  confronts  him,  standing  by  his  bed, 
A  lonesome  ghost  who  walks  uncomforted, 

Pale  child  of  Memory  and  dead  Delight, 

No  longer  fair  or  pleasant  in  his  sight. 

With  dusky  hair  upon  her  shoulders  shed, 
And  cypress  leaves  for  garland  on  her  head, 

As  patient  as  the  moonlight  and  as  white, 

She  stands  beside  him,  and  puts  forth  her  hand 
To  lead  him  backward  into  Love's  lost  Land  — 

Sad  Land  which  shadows  people,  and  where  wait 

Memory,  her  sire,  and  dead  Delight,  his  mate  — 
And  standing  there  among  the  shadowy  band, 

He  learns  how  Love  mocks  him  who  loves  too  late. 


IO6          YET,  STRANGELY  BEAUTIFUL. 


YET,   STRANGELY   BEAUTIFUL  YOUR 
FACE    I    FIND. 

\/ET,  strangely  beautiful  your  face  I  find ; 

Your  voice  is  like  the  murmur  that  decrees 
A  morn  of  April,  and  awakes  the  trees 

To  meet  the  soft  caresses  of  the  wind. 

Like  sudden  light  your  presence  makes  us  blind  ; 
From  your  compelling  spell  the  weak  man  flees, 
The  strong  man  sues  you  on  his  bended  knees  ; 

And  with  your  golden  hair  their  chains  you  bind. 

I  am  not  of  them.     Not  to  you  I  kneel. 

Cold  is  your  charm  —  like  the  white  moon  your 

soul ; 

For  something  more  akin  to  me  I  yearn. 
You  can  enthrall;  but,  Empress,  can  you  feel? 
March  on,  unchallenged,  to  your  far-off  goal ; 
From  you  to  some  more  human  heart  I  turn. 


A   SUMMER'S  DREAM.  IOJ 


A  SUMMER'S  DREAM. 
I. 

AIT' HAT  that  dead  summer  was  my  heart  knows 

well  — 

Knows  all  it  held  —  sad  joy,  and  joyous  pain  — 
For  pain  or  joy  it  cannot  come  again, 

With  bitter  sweetness  we  alone  could  tell :  — 

Time,  when  I  only  thought  to  say  farewell, 

To  break  the  links  of  Love's  long-during  chain  — 
That  I  the  stars  should  pass,  and  you  remain, 

Held  fast  to  earth  by  some  malignant  spell. 

Procession  of  long  days,  and  longer  nights  — 
When  suns  rose  mocking,  and  the  moon  was 

cold  — 

When  Hope  and  I  lay  dying,  as  I  thought, 
Still  could  I  bless  Love's  vanishing  delights, 
And  reach  pale  hands  to  clasp  him  as  of  old, 
Though  each  dread  hour  with  Death's  dismay 
was  fraught. 


108  A   SUMMER'S  DREAM. 

II. 

So  Summer,  with  her  slow,  reluctant  feet, 

Went  by,  and  lingering  smiled,  as  loth  to  part, 
While    fond    delusions   warmed     my   lonesome 
heart :  — 

Though  lives  were  severed,  winged  dreams  could 
meet; 

So  met  we,  dear,  as  bodiless  spirits  greet  — 
Met,  and  were  blind,  foreseeing  not  the  smart 
Of  hopes  that  hope  not,  and  of  tears  that  start 

From  eyes  that  say  what  lips  may  not  repeat. 

One  brief  day  here,  then  gone  beyond  the  sun  — 
How  short  the  way,  how  soon  the  goal  is  won  — 

So  less  or  more  of  love  why  need  we  measure  ? 
But  Fate  avenges  pleasant  things  begun, 
And  Retribution  spares  not  any  one, 

And  no  Gods  pity  those  who  steal  their  treasure. 


MASTERS.  109 


MY   MASTERS. 


'"THE  first  of  all  my  masters  was  Delight  — 

I  bent  my  knee  to  worship  him,  and  sought 
His  ministers,  and  all  the  bliss  they  wrought, 

In  Day's  large  splendor,  and  the  peace  of  Night, 

In  song,  and  mirth,  and  every  goodly  sight ; 
Until  fair  Love  another  lesson  taught, 
And  bitter  pain  dearer  than  pleasure  brought, 

And  my  whole  soul  was  subject  to  his  might. 

Brief  while  I  strove  for  Fame  —  his  laurel  wreath 
Seemed  good  to  wear,  and  dear  the  fleeting  breath 

With  which  men  praise  the  idol  of  an  hour ; 

But  one  drew  nigh  me  clothed  upon  with  power, 
And  looking  in  the  awful  eyes  of  Death 

I  knew  the  Master  at  whose  touch  we  cower. 


IIO  TO  PRINCE    ORIC. 


TO  PRINCE  ORIC. 

(  SIX    YEARS    OLD.) 

T^\O  you  remember,  centuries  gone  by, 

When  you  were  king,  and  I,  your  subject, 

came 

To  kiss  your  hand,  and  swell  the  loud  acclaim 
Wherewith  the  people  greeted  you,  and  cry  — 
"  Long  life,  and  love,  and  glory,  O  most  high 
And  puissant  lord  "  ?       The  city  was  aflame 
With  torches ;    banners  streamed  ;    and  knight 

and  dame 
Knelt  at  your  feet  —  you  smiled  your  proud  reply. 

I  think  you  do  remember ;  for  I  caught 
That  same  elusive  smile  upon  your  lips, 
When  ended  was  the  centuries'  eclipse, 

And  I,  my  sovereign  found,  my  homage  brought : 
"  Long  life,  and  love,  and  glory,  now  as  then  !  " 
And  you? — your  smile  is  my  reward  again. 


A  POET'S  SECOND  LOVE.  Ill 


A  POET'S  SECOND  LOVE. 
I. 

T  SHARE  your  heart  with  her,  its  former  Queen, 
Who  taught  your  lips  the  song  of  love  to  sing  — 
To  whose  high  altar  you  were  wont  to  bring 

Such  laurels  as  no  Fair  since  Time  hath  been 

Has  decked  her  brow  with.  Joy  was  there  and  teen, 
And  reverence,  as  for  some  most  sacred  thing 
Set  high  in  Heaven  for  all  men's  worshipping ; 

Such  laurels  gathers  no  man  twice,  I  ween. 

Your  second  love,  ungarlanded,  uncrowned  — 
Fit  for  life's  daily  uses,  let  us  say  — 

Whose  lips  have  never  thrilled  you  with  sweet  sound, 
Hears  from  the  grave  your   first   love's   voice, 
to-day. 

With  scornful  laughter  mock  her  hope  to  fill 

The  heart  ruled  by  its  earliest  sovereign  still. 


112  A   POET'S  SECOND  LOVE. 

II. 

Not  mine  the  spell  to  charm  your  lute  to  song ; 

A  poet  you,  yet  not  for  me  your  lays  ; 

You  crowned  that  other  woman  with  your  praise, 
Lifting  your  voice  to  Heaven,  triumphant,  strong, 
And  later  rhymes  might  do  her  laurels  wrong ; 

Should  you  and  I  together  tread  life's  ways, 

An  echo  would  pursue  us  from  old  days, 
And  men  would  say  —  "  He  loved  once,  well  and 

long, 
So  now  without  great  love  he  is  content, 

Since  she  is  dead  whose  praise  he  used  to  sing, 
And  daily  needs  demand  their  aliment."  .  .  . 

Thus  some  poor  bird,  who  strives  with  broken 

wing 

To  soar,  might  stoop  —  strength  gone  and  glad  life 
spent  — 

To  any  hand  that  his  scant  food  would  bring. 


FAIR  LIFE.  113 


FAIR   LIFE. 

Life,  thou  dear  companion  of  my  days  — 
Life  with  the  rose-red  lips  and  shining  eyes  — 

That  led'st  me  through  my  Youth's  glad  Paradise, 
And  stand's!  beside  me  still,  in  these  dull  ways 
My  older  feet  must  tread,  the  tangled  maze 

Where  cares  beset  me  and  fresh  foes  surprise ; 

On  the  keen  wind  and  from  the  far-off  skies 
Is  borne  a  whisper,  which  my  heart  dismays, 
That  thou  and  I  must  part.     Beloved  so  long, 

Wilt  thou  not  stay  with  me,  inconstant  Love? 
Nay,  then,  the  cry  upon  the  wind  grows  strong  — 

I  must  without  thee  fresh  adventure  prove ; 
And  yet  it  may  be  I  but  do  thee  wrong, 

And  I  shall  find  thee  waiting  where  I  rove. 


114        A   PLEA   FOR    THE   OLD    YEAR. 


A   PLEA   FOR  THE   OLD   YEAR. 

T    SEE  the  smiling  New  Year  climb  the  heights  — 
The  clouds,  his  heralds,  turn  the  sky  to  rose, 
And  flush  the  whiteness  of  the  winter  snows 

Till  Earth  is  glad  with  Life  and  Life's  delight. 

The  weary  Old  Year  died  when  died  the  night, 
And  this  new  comer,  proud  with  triumph,  shows 
His  radiant  face,  and  each  glad  subject  knows 

The  welcome  Monarch,  born  to  rule  aright. 

Yet  there  are  graves  far-off  that  no  man  tends, 

Where  lie  the  vanished  loves  and  hopes  and  fears, 

The  dreams  that  grew  to  be  our  hearts'  best  friends, 

The  smiles,  and,    dearer  than   the  smiles,  the 

tears  — 

These  were  that  Old  Year's  gifts,  whom  none  de- 
fends, 
Now  his  strong  Conqueror,  the  New,  appears. 


WHEN  I  AM  DEAD.          \  \  5 


WHEN  I  AM  DEAD. 

"\  \  7"HEN  I  am  dead  and  buried  underground, 

And  your  dear  eyes  still  greet  the  shining  day, 
Will  you  remember  —  "  Thus  she  used  to  say  — 
And  thus,  and  thus,  her  low  voice  used  to  sound  "  ? 
Will  memory  wander  like  a  ghost  around 

The  well-known  paths  —  tread  the  accustomed 

way; 

Or  will  you  pluck  fresh  blossoms  of  the  May, 
And  waste  no  rose  upon  my  burial  mound? 

I  would  not  have  your  life  to  sorrow  wed  — 

Your  joyous  youth  grief-stricken  for  my  sake  ; — 
Though  black-winged  Care  her  home  with  you 

should  make, 

Yet  vain  would  be  the  scalding  tears  you  shed  ; 
And  though  your  heart  for  love  of  me  should 

break, 
How  could  I  hear,  or  heed,  if  I  were  dead  ? 


Il6  ONE  AFTERNOON. 


ONE   AFTERNOON. 

TO   LOUISA,    LADY   ASHBURTON. 

T^ROM    the  dear   stillness   of  your   pines   you 

came  — 

That  vast  Cathedral  where  the  winds  are  choir, 
And  bear  to  the  far  heavens  the  soul's  desire, 
While  the  great  sun  burns  golden,  like  the  flame, 
On  some  high  altar,  to  the  Highest  Name  — 
From  that  dear  shrine  whence  worldly  thoughts 

retire  — 
Where  hearts  are  hushed,  and  souls  to  Heaven 

aspire, 

You  came,  as  one  who  would  God's  peace  pro- 
claim. 

Now  sunset  broods  upon  these  solemn  hills  — 
The  day  is  done,  and  the  deep  night  draws  nigh, 
And  soon  the  waiting  stars  will  light  the  sky  :  — 

Though  You  and  Day  have  gone,  your  presence 
fills 

The  place,  and  the  glad  air  around  me  thrills 
As  if  some  Heaven-sent  angel  had  passed  by. 


of 


Darkness  surrounds  us. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

Once  in  a  dream  I  saw  the  flowers 
That  bud  and  bloom  in  Paradise. 

CHRISTINA  ROSSETTI. 


AFAR  FROM   GOD.  1 19 


AFAR   FROM  GOD. 

T7AIN  -.vould  I  scale  the  heights  that  lead  to  God, 
But  my  feet  stumble  and  my  steps  are  weak, 
Warm  are  the  valleys,  and  the  hills  are  bleak : 

Here,  where  I  linger,  flowers  make  soft  the  sod, 

But  those  far  paths  that  martyr  feet  have  trod 
Are  sharp  with  flints,  and  from  their  farthest  peak 
The  still,  small  voice  but  faintly  seems  to  speak, 

While  here  the  drowsy  lilies  dream  and  nod. 

I  have  dreamed  with  them,  till  the  night  draws  nigh 
In  which  I  cannot  climb  :  still  high  above, 

In  the  blue  vastness  of  the  awful  sky, 

Those  unsealed  heights  my  fatal  weakness  prove  — 

Those  shining  heights  which  I  must  reach,  or  die 
Afar  from  God,  unquickened  by  His  love. 


120  MY  FATHER'S  HOUSE. 


MY   FATHER'S   HOUSE. 

A  \1  HEN  shall  I  join  the  blessed  company 

Of  those  this  barren  world  to  me  denies? 
When  shall  I  wake  to  the  new  day's  surprise, 

Beyond  the  murmur  of  death's  moaning  sea, 

In  that  glad  home  where  my  best  loved  ones  be ; 
And  know  that  I  have  found  my  Paradise, 
Finding  again  the  love  that  never  dies 

The  heart's  dear  welcome,  biding  there  for  me  ? 

I  wait  alone  upon  life's  wind-swept  beach  — 
The  waves  are  high  —  the  sea  is  wild  and  wide  — 
Yet  Death,  bold  pilot,  all  their  wrath  shall  dare, 
And  guide  me  to  the  shore  I  fain  would  reach :  — 
Even  now  I  hear  the  swift,  incoming  tide, 
Whose  slow,  eternal  ebb  my  bark  shall  bear. 


NEWLY  BORN.  121 


NEWLY   BORN. 

T  of  the  dark  into  the  arms  of  love 
The  babe  is  born,  and  recks  not  of  the  way 
His  soul  has  traversed  to  confront  the  day : 
Enough  for  him  the  face  that  smiles  above, 
The  tireless  feet  that  on  his  errands  move, 
The  arms  that  clasp,  the  tender  lips  that  kiss, 
The  whole  dear  wealth  of  welcome  and  of  bliss 
His  heirship  and  his  sovereignty  that  prove. 

So  may  there  be  no  place  for  Earth's  vain  tears 
When  Heaven's  great  rapture  bursts  upon  the 
sight :  — 

Shall  not  the  soul,  new-born  in  heavenly  spheres, 
Forget  the  paths  it  traversed,  and  the  night 

It  journeyed  through,  and  all  old  hopes  and  fears, 
Caught  up  into  that  Infinite,  Great  Light? 


122  THE  SONG   OF  THE  STARS. 


THE   SONG   OF  THE   STARS. 

TN   those   high   heavens   wherein  the  fair   stars 

flower, 

They  do  God's  praises  sound  from  night  till  morn, 
And  till  the  smiling  day  is  newly  born 

Chant  each  to  each  His  glory  and  His  power; 

Then,  silent,  wait,  through  Day's  brief  triumph-hour, 
Watching  till  Night  shall  come  again,  with  scorn 
Of  those  chameleon  splendors  that  adorn 

Day's  death,  and  then  before  his  victor  cower. 

Forever,  to  immortal  ears,  they  sing, — 

These   shining    stars  that  praise  their    Maker's 
grace  — 

And  from  far  world  to  world  their  anthems  ring : 
They  shine  and  sing  because  they  see  His  face 

We,  cowards,  dread  the  vision  Death  shall  bring, 
The  waking  rapture,  and  the  fair,  far  place. 


A   QUESTION:  AT  SEA.  12$ 


A  QUESTION:    AT  SEA. 

TT  OW  dark  the  clouds  that  hide  the  sky  from 
sight, 

While  winds  like  human  souls  moan  round  our 
keel, 

Their  woe  inexplicable  to  reveal  — 
With  lone,  unsilenced  cries  for  lost  delight, 
That  suns  by  day,  or  journeying  moons  by  night 

Can  find  no  more,  till  the  vast  heavens  reel 

And  the  strong  worlds  are  rent  by  that  last  peal, 
The  trumpet-blast  that  puts  old  Time  to  flight. 

Then,  when  the  End  has  come,  and  Chaos  reigns, 
And  darkness  mocks  past  glories  of  the  sun, 

Will  human  hearts  forget  their  human  pains 
In  some  unearthly  blessedness,  new-won? 

Shall  we  outlast  this  brief  earth's  transient  gains, 
And  know  ourselves  the  one  thing  not  undone  ? 


124  THE  LAND   OF  GOLD. 


THE   LAND   OF  GOLD. 

"DEHIND  the  sunset's  bars  in  the  wide  West, 

We  catch  the  radiance  of  the  Land  of  Gold ; 
The  dazzling  splendors  of  its  wealth  untold 
Flash  through  our  dreams,  and  wake  to  vague  un- 
rest 

The  soul  —  with  Life's  dull  weariness  opprest, 
Or  wrapped  in  weeds  of  sorrow,  fold  on  fold  — 
Till,  with  sheer  longing  and  despair  grown  bold, 
We  turn  to  seek  that  Land  where  all  are  blest. 

But  the  Gold  fades,  and  the  strong  stars  arise 
That  look  beyond  the  sunset  and  the  sun  ; 
They  see  our  little  world  swing  far  below, 
While  over  it  imperial  planets  glow  — 
From  Heaven  they  whisper,  "  Heaven  cannot  be 

won 
Until  great  Death  has  come  to  make  men  wise." 


A  PRAYER  IN  THE  DARK.  125 


A   PRAYER   IN  THE   DARK. 

T  STRETCH  my  hand  out  through  the  lonesome 
night, 

My  helpless  hand,  and  pray  Thee,  Lord,  to  lead 

My  ignorant  steps,  and  help  me  at  my  need  : 
Far  off  from  home,  pity  my  hapless  plight, 
And  through  the  darkness  guide  me  on  to  light ! 

I  have  no  hope  unless  my  cry  Thou  heed,  — 

Be  merciful ;  for  I  am  lost,  indeed, 
Unless  thy  rising  sun  the  darkness  smite. 

How  shall  I  find,  who  know  not  how  to  seek? 

Kindle  my  soul,  enlighten  my  dull  mind  ; 
My  heart  is  heavy,  and  my  faith  is  weak,  — 

A  stone  am  I,  and  deaf  and  dumb  and  blind,  — 
Unhelped  of  Thee  my  footsteps  helpless  stray,  — 
Have  pity,  Thou,  and  lead  me  to  the  Day  ! 


SDeatJ'g 


The  dead  but  sceptered  sovereigns  who  still  rule. 

BYRON. 

The  ways  of  Death  are  soothing  and  serene  — 
And  all  the  words  of  Death  are  grave  and  sweet. 

W.  E.  HENLEY. 


ACROSS   THE  SEA.  1 29 


ACROSS  THE  SEA. 

T  NTO  the  silence  of  the  silent  night 

He  passed,  whom  all  men  honor ;  and  the  sun 

Arose  to  shine  upon  a  world  undone, 
And  barren  lives,  bereft  of  Life's  delight. 
The  morning  air  was  chill  with  sudden  blight, 

And  Winter's  cruel  triumph  had  begun ; 

But  He  to  some  far  Summer  shore  had  won, 
Whose  splendor  hides  him  from  our  dazzled  sight. 

Not  England's  pride  alone,  this  Lord  of  Song  ! 
We  —  heirs  to  Shakespeare's  and   to   Milton's 

speech  — 

Claim  heritage  from  Tennyson's  proud  years  : 
To  us  his  spacious,  splendid  lines  belong  — 
We,  too,  repeat  his  praises,  each  to  each  — 
We  share  his  glory,  and  we  share  your  tears. 

OCTOBER,  1892. 


I3O  ROBERT  BROWNING 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 
I. 

HIS   STAR. 

r"PHE    Century   was    young  —  the    month   was 

May  — 

The  spacious  East  was  kindled  with  a  light 
That  lent  a  sudden  glory  to  tlie  night, 

And  a  new  star  began  its  upward  way 

Toward  the  high  splendor  of  the  perfect  day : 
With  pure  white  flame,  inexorably  bright, 
It  reached  the  souls  of  men  —  no  stain  so  slight 

As  to  escape  its  all-revealing  ray. 

When  countless  voices  cried,  "  The  Star  has  set ! " 
And  through  the  lands  there  surged  a  sea  of  pain, 
Was  it  Death's  triumph  —  victory  of  Woe  ?  — 
Nay  !     There  are  lights  the  sky  may  not  forget : 
When  suns,  and  moons,  and  souls  shall  rise  again, 
In  the  New  Life's  wide  East  that  star  shall 
glow. 


ROBER  T  BRO  WNING.  1 3 1 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 
II. 

THE   POET  OF   HUMAN   LIFE. 

C ILENCE  and  Night  sequestered  thee  in  vain  ! 
Oblivion's  threats  thou  proudly  couldst  defy. 

Thou  art  not  dead  —  such  great  souls  do  not  die  : 
One  small  world's  range  no  longer  could  constrain 
That  strong- winged  spirit  of  its  freedom  fain  : 

New  stars,  new  lives,  thy  fearless  quest  would  try. 

Our  baffled  vision  may  not  soar  so  high  — 
We  mourn,  as  loss,  thine  infinite,  great  gain. 

Yet,  keen  of  sight,  to  whom  men's  souls  lay  bare, 
Stripped  clean  of  shams,  unclothed  of  all  disguise, 

Revealed  to  thee  as  if  at  each  soul's  birth 
Thou  hadst  been  nigh  to  stamp  it  foul  or  fair  — 
Why  shouldst  thou  seek  new  schools  to  make 

thee  wise 

Who   shared   Heaven's   secrets    whilst    thou 
walked  on  earth  ? 


DECEMBER,  1890. 


132  OLIVER    WENDELL  HOLMES. 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES. 

A  ND  can  it  be  on  the  relentless  blast 

The  Last  Leaf  has  blown  by  —  the  tree  is 

bare? 

Strange  was  the  chill  that  shivered  on  the  air, 
As  if  an  unclothed  soul  were  hurrying  past, 
In  search  of  some  new  region  strange  and  vast  — 
Some  Country  unexplored,  where  dead  men  fare, 
Assuaged  of  Life,  and  all  Life's  carking  care, 
To  the  Great  Rapture,  waiting  them  at  last. 

He  may  be  glad  for  whom  the  Heavens  ope, 
And  the  New  Day  shines  royally  and  clear  — 
But  we,  who  mourn  him  and  shall  mourn  him 

long, 

For  what  meet  consolation  shall  we  hope  — 
Or  whither  shall  our  sorrow  turn  for  cheer, 
Bereft  of  our  dear  Singer,  and  his  song? 

OCTOBER,  1894. 


SUMMONED  BY  THE  KING.  133 


SUMMONED   BY  THE   KING.1 

IT  E  was  at  home  in  Courts  and  knew  the  great, 
•*•  ^      Himself  was  of  them.     Ofttimes  Kings  have 

sent 

To  call  him  to  their  presence  ;  and  he  went, 
A  welcome  guest,  to  share  their  royal  state, 
For  earth's  high  potentates  a  fitting  mate. 

He  was  of  all  men  honored  —  crowned  of  Song, 
And  crowned  of  Love  —  and   high  above   the 

wrong 
Of  envy,  or  the  littleness  of  hate. 

And  now  the  mightiest  King  —  to  summon  him 
To  that  far  place  whereto  all  souls  must  come  — 
Has   sent  swift   Azrael,    Heaven's   chamber- 
lain, — 
Beyond  the  ultimate  sea's  remotest  rim, 

Where  all  the  voices  of  this  earth  are  dumb, 
The  Courtier  journeys  — called  to  Court  again. 


1  James  Russell  Lowell  —  August,  1891. 


134  PHILIP  BOURKE  MARS  TOW. 


PHILIP   BOURKE   MARSTON. 

AUTHOR   OF    "GARDEN   SECRETS." 

T_T  E,  who  those  secrets  whispered  —  he  is  dead  — 
No  more  the  rose  and  lily  shall  confide 

To  him  how  faithless  was  the  Wind  that  sighed 
With  fleeting  love,  rifled  their  bloom  and  fled ; 
The  "  Garden  Fairies,"  by  Titania  led, 

Ring  no  more  chimes  of  rapture  since  he  died ; 

And  from  unseen  "Wind  Gardens,"  where  abide 
The  souls  of  blossoms,  no  sweet  breath  is  shed. 

His  flowers  and  he  have  vanished  :  yet,  who  knows 
Through  what  fair  fields  unwitnessed  of  the  sun 
He  wanders,  among  blossoms  red  and  white, 
Fostered  of  Joy  —  where  never  chill  blast  blows, 
And  the  glad  year  is  always  just  begun  ?  — 
Nor  Time,  nor  Death,  immortal  youth  can 
blight. 


THE   CLOSED   GATE.  135 


THE   CLOSED   GATE. 


But  life  is  short ;  so  gently  close  the  gate. 

WINIFRED  HOWELLS. 


'""PHUS  wrote  she  when  the  heart  in  her  was  high, 
And  her  brief  tale  of  youth  seemed  just  begun. 
Like  some  white  flower  that  shivers  in  the  sun 

She  heard  from  far  the  low  winds  prophesy  — 

Blowing  across  the  grave  where  she  must  lie  — 
Had  strange  prevision  of  the  victory  won 
In  the  swift  race  that  Life  with  Death  should  run, 

And,  hand  in  hand  with  Life,  saw  Death  draw  nigh. 

Beyond  this  world  the  hostile  surges  foam  : 
Our  eyes  are  dim  with  tears  and  cannot  see 

In  what  fair  paths  her  feet  our  coming  wait, 
What  stars  rise  for  her  in  her  far  new  home  :  — 
We  but  conjecture  all  she  yet  may  be, 

While  on  the  Joy  she  was,  we  close  the  gate. 


136  A   DREAM  IN  THE  NIGHT. 


A   DREAM    IN   THE   NIGHT. 

TO   MY    MOTHER. 

OMETIMES  it  seems  thy  face  —  thy  long-hid 
face  — 

Looks  out  on  me  as  from  a  passing  cloud, 

Till  I  forget  they  clad  thee  in  thy  shroud, 
And  laid  thee  sleeping  in  thy  far-off  place  — 
So  once  again  the  tender,  healing  grace 

Of  thy  dear  presence  is  to  me  allowed. 

Wilt  thou  not  bless  the  head  before  thee  bowed  ? 
Wilt  not  thy  voice  thrill  through  the  empty  space  ? 

How  lone  and  cold  the  world  without  thee  seemed  ! 
Regaining  thee,  how  warm  it  is  and  bright ! 

Yet  all  in  vain  to  reach  thee  do  I  seek :  — 
And  then  I  wake  to  know  I  have  but  dreamed, 
And  thou  art  silent  as  the  silent  night  — 

With  tears  I  call  thee,  yet  thou  dost  not  speak. 


fionDcls  anti  HontJcaur. 


With  pipe  and  flute  the  rustic  Pan 
Of  old  made  music  sweet  for  man. 

AUSTIN  DOBSON. 

Like  echo  of  an  old  refrain 
That  long  within  the  mind  has  lain. 
CANON  BELL. 


VA GRANT  LOVE.  139 


VAGRANT   LOVE. 

VAGRANT  Love  !  do  you  come  this  way  ? 
I  hear  you  knock  at  the  long-closed  door 
That  turned  too  oft  on  its  hinge  before  — 
I  am  stronger  now ;  I  can  say  you  Nay. 

The  vague,  sweet  smile  on  your  lips  to-day, 
Its  meaning  and  magic  I  know  of  yore  : 

O  vagrant  Love,  do  you  come  this  way? 
I  hear  your  knock  at  the  long-closed  door. 

But  why  your  summons  should  I  obey? 
I  listened  once  till  my  heart  grew  sore  — 
Shall  I  listen  again,  and  again  deplore  ? 
Nay  !     Autumn  must  ever  be  wiser  than  May  — 
And  the  more  we  welcome  the  more  you  betray  — 
O  vagrant  Love,  would  you  come  this  way? 


I4O  THOUGH  WE  REPENT. 


THOUGH   WE   REPENT. 

T^HOUGH  we  repent,  can  any  God  give  back 
The  dear,  lost  days  we  might  have  made  so 

fair  — 

Turn  false  to  true,  and  carelessness  to  care 
And  let  us  find  again  what  now  we  lack? 

Oh,  once,  once  more  to  tread  the  old-time  track, 
The  flowers  we  threw  away  once  more  to  wear  — 

Though  we  repent,  can  any  God  give  back 

The  dear,  lost  days  we  might  have  made  so  fair  ? 

Who  can  repulse  a  stealthy  ghost's  attack  — 
Silence  a  voice  that  doth  the  midnight  dare  — 
Make   fresh    hopes   spring   from   grave-sod   of 

despair  — 

Set  free  a  tortured  soul  from  memory's  rack? 
Though  we  repent,  can  any  God  give  back 

The   dear,  lost   days  we   might  have  made  so 
fair? 


THE  SPRING  IS  HERE,  141 


THE  SPRING  IS  HERE. 

T    FEEL  the  kindness  of  the  lengthening  days  — 

I  warm  me  at  the  strong  fire  of  the  sun  — 
I  know  the  year's  glad  course  is  well  begun  — 
Ah,  what  awaits  me  in  its  devious  ways  ? 

What  strange,  new  bliss  shall  thrill  me  with  amaze  ? 

What  prize  shall  I  rejoice  that  I  have  won? 
I  feel  the  kindness  of  the  lengthening  days  — 

I  warm  me  at  the  strong  fire  of  the  sun. 

Yet  I  behold  the  phantom  that  dismays  — 
The  face  of  Grief  that  spares  no  t  any  one  — 
Rewards  come  not  until  the  task  is  done, 
And  there  are  minor  chords  in  all  earth's  lays ;  — 
Nay !     Trust    the    kindness   of    the   lengthening 

days  — 
I  '11  warm  me  at  the  strong  fires  of  the  sun. 


142         TO    THE   GHOST  OF  MARY,  ETC. 


TO    THE    GHOST  OF    MARY    QUEEN   OF 
SCOTS. 

"PAIR,  ruthless  Ghost,  I  know  you  well ! 

High  poets  praised  you  with  their  lays, 
Yet  could  not  half  your  beauty  tell ; 
So,  now,  your  loveliness  dismays 

My  rhyme,  and  mocks  my  poor  essays 
To  hint,  in  words,  its  magic  spell. 
Ah,  witching  Queen,  strange  woes  befell 

The  bards  who  served  you  in  old  days  ! 

Sweet,  ruthless  Ghost,  their  songs  of  praise 
Like  warning  music  with  me  dwell, 

And  bid  me  to  beware  your  plays 

With  love  and  death  —  your  charm  repel. 

You  smile  again  !  that  smile  betrays 

Hearts  still  are  playthings :  Fare  you  well. 


AFTER  SUPPING    WITH  A  POET.         143 


AFTER   SUPPING   WITH   A   POET. 


TO   E.   G. 


V70U  called  your  mystic  draught  Canary  sack  — 
I  drank,  and  dreamed  of  far-off  Southern 

Seas, 

And  heard  the  wraiths  of  vagrant  melodies ; 
And  Joys  and  Hopes  from  some  dim  shade  came 
back. 


What  blithe  feet  walked  upon  a  grass-grown  track  ! 

What  glad  winds  gossiped  under  summer  trees  ! 
You  called  your  mystic  draught  Canary  sack  — 

I  drank,  and  dreamed  of  far-off  Southern  Seas. 

This  wine,  from  strange  grapes  pressed,  upon  my 

track 

Lets  loose  the  band  of  Ancient  Memories  : 
Now  this  sole  cup  my  waywardness  can  please ; 
All  other  brews  some  fine  distinction  lack  — 
You  called  your  magic  draught  Canary  sack  ! 


144  ROSAMOND'S  ROSE. 


ROSAMOND'S  ROSE. 


OSAMOND  gave  me  a  rose, 

Rose-red  and  alive  in  the  sun : 
Ah,  what  was  its  secret?     Who  knows?  — 
Her  garden  held  only  that  one. 

Now  alive  in  my  heart  it  glows ; 

By  its  magic  my  peace  is  undone  — 
There  are  spells  that  the  wise  should  shun 

Rosamond  gave  me  a  rose. 

But  where  is  my  old  repose? 

She  calls  —  to  her  feet  I  run  : 
Oh,  who  shall  the  secret  disclose  ? 

Or  how  was  my  bondage  begun  ?  — 
Rosamond  gave  me  a  rose, 

Rose-red  and  alive  in  the  sun. 


TO  A   FAIR  LADY.  145 


TO   A   FAIR   LADY. 


"C*AIR  Lady,  you  were  clad  in  white 

When  first  your  gentle  eyes  I  met, 
And  never  shall  my  heart  forget 
The  vision  of  that  August  night. 

With  the  pale  moon's  transcendent  light, 
You  shone,  in  your  clear  heaven  set ; 

Fair  Lady,  you  were  clad  in  white 
When  first  your  gentle  eyes  I  met. 

Bend,  Moon  of  Women,  from  your  height, 
Soothe  with  your  smile  earth's  care  and  fret, 
Let  us  be  happy  in  your  debt, 

Since  you  Love's  varied  charms  unite ; 

Your  soul  and  you  were  clad  in  white 
When  first  your  gentle  eyes  I  met. 


10 


146  TWO    THRUSHES  MET. 


TWO  THRUSHES   MET. 

FOR   M.    E.    S. 

HPWO  thrushes  met  upon  an  April  day, 

And  sang  a  simple  song  of  love  and  glee  : 
.  .  .  "And  I  am  I,  dear  heart,  and  you  are  she 
Whose  tender  note  beguiled  me  oil  my  way  !  " 

They  did  not  heed  that  all  the  sky  was  gray, 
And  not  a  neighbor  leaf  on  any  tree  — 

Two  thrushes  met  upon  an  April  day, 
And  sang  a  simple  song  of  love  and  glee. 

They  did  not  miss  the  brightness  of  the  May, 
Or  long  the  Summer's  lavish  wealth  to  see. 
"  April,"  he  chirped,  "  is  fair  enough  for  me, 

And  when  you  sing,  lo,  Spring  is  on  the  way  "  — 

Two  thrushes  met  upon  an  April  day, 
And  sang  a  simple  song  of  love  and  glee. 


LOVE  MAKES    THE  SPRING.  147 


LOVE   MAKES  THE   SPRING. 

TT  AS  Spring  come  back  ?     Is  this  the  May 

That  makes  the  air  so  bland  to-day  ? 
The  wild  sweet  winds  are  glad  to  know  - 
The  waiting  flowers  begin  to  blow, 

Green  things  are  blithe  along  the  way. 

"  What  happy  spell,"  I  hear  them  say, 
"  Has  turned  the  Winter  into  May?  " 

Each  to  the  other  —  "  Do  you  know  ? 
Has  Spring  come  back?" 

Ah,  Love  is  he  who  warms  the  day, 

And  turns  the  Winter  into  May  — 
And  happy  things  begin  to  grow, 
Alive  with  Love's  glad  overflow, 

And  answer  to  his  ardent  ray  — 

"  Spring  has  come  back. :' 


148  LIFE'S  DAY. 


LIFE'S   DAY. 

TO   ONE   WHO   ASKS   ME   FOR  A  MERRY   SONG. 

,  could  I  know  how  long  Life's  day  — 
How  near  its  end,  or  far  away  — 
What  space  for  mirth,  what  room  for  tears 
Then  might  I  put  aside  my  fears, 
And  for  a  little  while  be  gay. 

But  now,  I  think,  Death  soon  may  stray 
Hereward,  and  find  me  at  my  play, 

And  mock  my  laughter  with  his  jeers  — 
Ah,  could  I  know  ! 

And  so  I  tremble  'neath  the  sway 

Of  that  arch  Foe,  who  at  me  peers, 
And  hour  by  hour  my  covert  nears, 
Yet  mocks  me  when  I  bid  him  say 
How  long  for  me  may  be  Life's  day. 


<Ouatrain£. 


Sudden  and  swift,  and  like  a  passing  wind. 

MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 


THE  LOST  ROOM. 


151 


THE   LOST   ROOM. 


A I  7  HEN  I  came  out  of  the  fair  House  of  Youth 
^  *      I  heedlessly  behind  me  closed  the  door  — 
Now  every  hour  is  bitter  with  the  truth 
That  I  can  find  that  portal  never  more. 


152 


AUTUMN  DAYS. 


AUTUMN   DAYS. 

A  UTUMN  days  no  solace  bring 

Harvest  time  is  vain  — 
Come  again,  O  joy  of  spring  — 
Come  Youth's  April  pain. 


A   DEAD  POET. 


153 


A   DEAD   POET. 


HE  was  the  brightest  thing  beneath  the  sun 

Joy  had  of  her  his  will  — 
And,  now  her  singing  life  is  spent  and  done, 
The  world  seems  strange  and  chill. 


154 


IN  A   LIBRARY. 


IN   A   LIBRARY. 

'  I  "HE  living  ofttimes  vex  us  — 
The  wise  old  dead  are  best  — 

When  Life's  vain  games  perplex  us 
'T  is  here  we  turn  for  rest. 


THE  KING  DETHRONED.  155 


THE   KING   DETHRONED. 

IT  E  wore  the  purple  a  year  and  a  day  — 

His  pride  was  high,  and  his  will  was  strong  :  - 

"  Then  why  was  his  reign  so  brief?  "  you  say  — 
He  reigneth  gently  who  reigneth  long. 


I56 


WHO  KNOWS? 


WHO   KNOWS? 

HP  HE  Lily  lifts  to  mine  her  nunlike  face, 

But  my  wild  heart  is  beating  for  the  Rose  : 

How  can  I  pause  to  heed  the  Lily's  grace  ?  — 
Shall  I  repent  me  by  and  by?    Who  knows? 


DAY'S  MOCKERY.  !$/ 


DAY'S  MOCKERY. 

T  HEARD  Love's  voice  thrill  all  the  waiting  Night, 
And  I  arose  and  followed  where  he  led : 

Then  Morning  mocked  me  with  revealing  light  — 
The  great  bright  world  was   empty  —  Love 
was  dead. 


i58 


YOU. 


YOU. 

T  SAW  your  face,  and  knew  it  was  the  Spring ; 

Your  eyes  were  bluer  than  the  morning  skies, 
And  when  you  smiled  the  birds  began  to  sing, 

Waiting  no  longer  for  the  sun  to  rise. 


/  STUDIED  LIFE. 


159 


I   STUDIED    LIFE. 

T  STUDIED  Life  in  Helen's  look, 
And  knew  that  Life  was  mine  — 

Now  she  is  dead  I  close  the  book ; 
Death  has  no  countersign. 


160  THE  PRODIGAL. 


THE   PRODIGAL. 

AD  penitent,  beloved  of  God  thou  art, 
Thy  wandering  feet  He  welcomes  home   at 

night  — 

More  dear  than  those  who  never  did  depart 
Is  the  returning  sinner,  to  His  sight. 


Turn  over  a  new  leaf. 

DEKKER. 


LONG   WEEPING.  163 


LONG  WEEPING. 

(From  the  German  of  Heine.) 

T  HAVE  in  a  dream  been  weeping ; 

Thou  wert  in  thy  grave,  I  dreamed. 
I  awoke  from  that  bitter  dreaming, 
And  still  the  hot  tears  streamed. 

I  have  in  a  dream  been  weeping ; 

I  dreamed  thou  wert  gone  from  me. 
I  awoke,  and  awake  kept  weeping, 

Long  time  and  bitterly. 

I  have  in  a  dream  been  weeping ; 

I  dreamed  that  thou  still  wert  kind. 
I  awoke,  but  I  weep  forever : 

My  tears  have  made  me  blind. 


164  BY  MOONLIGHT. 


BY  MOONLIGHT. 

(From  Jfeine.) 

T    IKE  dark  dreams  stand  the  houses, 
•*•"*     Stretched  out  in  lengthened  row ; 
And  shrouded  close  in  my  mantle 
I  silently  by  them  go. 

The  bell  of  the  Cathedral 

Chimes  midnight  from  above  ; 

I  know,  with  charms  and  kisses, 
Now  waits  for  me  my  Love. 

The'moon  is  my  companion, 

Who  kindly  leadeth  me  ; 
At  last  I  reach  her  dwelling, 

And  cry  out  joyfully  : 

"Old  Confidante,  I  thank  thee 

That  thou  hast  lit  my  way  ! 
Shine  on,  now  that  I  leave  thee, 

And  lend  the  rest  thy  ray  ! 


BY  MOONLIGHT.  165 

"  And  should'st  thou  find  a  lover, 
Who  lonely  makes  his  moan, 

Give  him  the  same  dear  comfort 
That  I,  of  old,  have  known." 


1 66  THROUGH  THE  DARKNESS. 


THROUGH   THE   DARKNESS. 

(From  Heine.) 

\  \  7"E  travelled  alone  in  the  darkness, 

Posted  the  whole  night  through ; 
On  each  other's  hearts  we  rested ; 
We  laughed  and  jested,  too. 

But  with  the  dawn  of  the  morning, 
My  Child,  how  astonished  were  we ; 

For  between  us  Love  was  sitting, 
A  passenger  blind  was  he. 


THE  MIRROR.  167 


THE   MIRROR. 

(From  the  Provencal  of  TUodore  Aubanel.) 

,  long  ago  she  dwelt 
In  this  gay  little  room  — 
How  shall  I  find  my  flower 

Here  where  she  used  to  bloom? 
O  longing,  thirsting  eyes, 
Pursue  the  dear  surprise  : 

Mirror,  thou  know'st  her  well  — 
Work  thou  some  magic  spell 
And  bring  her  back  ! 

Here,  when  the  morn  was  bright, 
She  bathed  her  lovely  face, 

Her  little  hands  she  bathed, 
And  clad  herself  with  grace. 

Between  lips  glad  with  song 

Her  teeth  shone,  white  and  strong  : 
Mirror,  thou  know'st  her  well  — 
Work  thou  some  magic  spell 
To  bring  her  back  ! 


1 68  THE  MIRROR. 

So  innocent,  so  blithe, 
Yet  starting  at  a  sound, 

She  let  her  long  hair's  veil 

Fall  her  white  shoulders  round. 

Then  from  her  grandsire's  book 

Her  morning  prayer  she  took  : 
Mirror,  thou  know'st  her  well  — 
Work  thou  some  magic  spell 
And  bring  her  back  ! 

Ah,  there  the  book  leans  now, 
Against  the  sacred  palm  — 

Open,  as  when  she  prayed, 
Or  read  some  holy  psalm  ! 

Surely  I  hear  her  feet  — 

The  wind  with  them  is  fleet : 
Mirror,  thou  know'st  her  well  — 
Hast  thou  no  magic  spell 
To  bring  her  back? 

At  high  mass  or  at  fete 
How  fair  she  was  to  see  ! 

And  I,  who  should  have  prayed,  — 
O  Lord,  forgive  thou  me  !  — 

Watched  her,  as  there  she  knelt ; 

For  prayer  her  name  I  spelt : 
Mirror,  thou  know'st  her  well  — 
Work  me  some  magic  spell 
And  bring  her  back  ! 


THE  MIRROR.  169 

Here  leaned  she  forth  to  talk ; 

Here  of  her  tasks  she  thought ; 
For  God's  love  and  God's  poor 

Such  patient  stitches  wrought ; 
Her  swift  hands  to  and  fro 
Before  thee  used  to  go  : 

Mirror,  thou  know'st  her  well, 

Yet  hast  no  magic  spell 
To  bring  her  back  ! 

Glad  days  of  foolish  chat, 

Dear  days  of  love  and  rhyme, 
Season  of  mirth  and  dance, 

Love's  long-lost,  golden  time, 
Bright  hair  where  sunshine  lay 
The  priest's  hands  sheared  away  : 

Mirror,  thou  know'st  her  well  — 

Hast  thou,  indeed,  no  spell 
To  bring  her  back  ? 

But  thou  dost  rule,  O  God  ! 

Thy  harvest  springs  from  pain ; 
And  fairest  blooms  are  fed 

On  tears  that  fall  like  rain. 
O  Gatherer  divine, 
The  sweetest  flowers  are  thine  ! 

Mirror,  thou  know'st  her  well  — 

Why  hast  thou  not  some  spell 
To  bring  her  back? 


I/O  THE  MIRROR. 

The  day  she  went  away 

Her  cheeks  were  bathed  in  tears ; 
The  long  night  she  had  wept 

Past  joys  and  future  fears  ; 
But  when  the  convent's  door 
Had  closed,  she  wept  no  more  : 

Mirror,  thou  know'st  her  well  — 

I  seek  thy  magic  spell 
To  bring  her  back. 

Under  the  half-dead  vine 

To  this  porch  I  drew  nigh  : 
"This  House  to  Let,"  I  read  — 

It  hurt  me  like  a  cry. 
No  one  awaits  me  here  ; 
But  still  my  heart  draws  near : 
Mirror,  thou  know'st  her  well  — 
Yet  thou  canst  work  no  spell 
To  bring  her  back. 


LA    VIE.  I/I 


LA  VIE. 

(From  the  French  of  Montenaeken.) 

A  H,  brief  is  Life, 

Love's  short,  sweet  way, 
With  dreamings  rife, 
And  then  —  Good-day  ! 

And  Life  is  vain  — 
Hope's  vague  delight, 

Griefs  transient  pain, 
And  then  —  Good-night ! 


SWALLOW     FLIGHTS 

By  LOUISE   CHANDLER  MOULTON 


i6mo.     Cloth,  extra.     £1.25 


It  is  not  surprising  that  it  has  been  found  necessary  to  publish 
new  editions  of  Mrs.  Moulton's  charming  volumes  of  poems.  When 
"Swallow  Flights"  was  first  published  in  this  country,  the  "Athe- 
naeum "  was  among  the  first  to  call  attention  to  its  merits.  The  opinion 
of  these  poems  which  we  then  expressed  —  that  they  exhibited  '  delicate 
and  rare  beauty,  marked  originality,  and  perfection  of  style,  and  im- 
pressed us  with  a  sense  of  vivid  and  subtle  imagination,  and  that 
spontaneous  feeling  which  is  the  essence  of  lyrical  poetry '  —  we  see  no 
reason  to  modify,  after  looking  through  the  new  editions  before  us.  ... 
Her  sonnets  are  among  the  best,  if  indeed  they  are  not  the  best,  which 
America  has  produced.  —  London  Athenteum. 

Since  Browning,  there  is  no  English  poet  we  know  who  has  given 
more  direct,  beautiful,  and  seizing  expression  than  Mrs.  Moulton  suc- 
ceeds in  doing  to  some  of  the  tragedies  that  underlie  the  lives  of  every- 
day men  and  women.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Moulton's  gifts,  even  of  style,  are 
her  own.  It  was  not  art  but  nature  which  gave  her  that  spontaneity 
and  directness  which  are  so  marked  a  characteristic  of  her  poems.  — 
T.  P.  O'CONNOR,  in  Sunday  Sun. 

We  brought  "Swallow  Flights"  to  Brighton  with  us,  and  my 
father  has  been  reading  it,  to-night.  .  .  .  There  can  be  no  doubt  that 
measuring  by  quality,  not  quantity,  your  place  is  in  the  very  foremost 
rank  of  poets.  The  divine  simplicity,  strength  and  subtlety,  the  in- 
tense, fragrant,  genuine  individuality  of  your  poems,  will  make  them 
imperishable.  —  PHILIP  BOURKE  MARSTON. 

Your  poems  tell  me  that  they  are  breathed  from  a  woman's  heart 
as  plainly  as  the  fragrance  of  a  rose  reveals  its  birthplace.  I  am  struck 
with  their  passionate  sincerity.  I  have  known  you,  in  your  poems, 
from  your  earlier  years  ;  and  I  cannot  see  that  the  life  of  ardent 
youth  is  dying  out  of  them,  or  like  to.—  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

I  close  your  volume  only  when  I  needs  must,  with  music  in  my  ears, 
flowers  before  my  eyes,  and  thoughts  before  my  brain.  —  ROBERT 
BROWNING. 


Swallow  Flights  (Continued) 

Mrs.  Moulton's  lyrics  charm  by  their  birdlike  facility  and  musical 
flow.  — London  Saturday  Review. 

Mrs.  Moulton's  genius  is  admirable. —  Cambridge  Review. 
Her  lyrics  haunt  the  memory  after  the  book  is  closed.  —  Morning 
News. 

They  betray  in  every  line  a  true  poet's  temperament  and  imagina- 
tion and  a  rare  command  of  expressive  phrase.  It  is  not  easy  to  recall 
among  the  women  poets  who  are  writing  in  English  one  whose  work 
has  the  genuinely  poetic  qualities  that  Mrs.  Moulton's  verse  has. — 
New  York  Book  Buyer. 

Mrs.  Moulton's  nature-verses  will  come  home  to  those  who  have 
shared  the  emotion  they  celebrate.  The  very  spirit  of  the  morning  is 
in  such  poems  as  "Morning  Glory."  .  .  .  Her  sonnets  are  very 
varied,  but  all  are  beautiful.  — London  Literary  World. 

We  make  bold  to  question  if,  outside  the  work  of  Mrs.  Browning 
and  Miss  Rossetti,  there  is  another  sonnet  in  our  language,  written  by 
a  woman,  which  in  emotional  intensity  and  dignity  of  thought  and 
execution  is  worthy  of  comparison  with  Mrs.  Moulton's  "  Help  Thou 
Mine  Unbelief."  — London  Methodist  Recorder. 

Chance  extracts,  whether  of  sonnet  or  lyric,  poorly  suffice  to  give 
a  flavour  of  the  charm  that  binds  all  these  "  Swallow  Flights  "  in  one 
—  makes  them  apart  from  all  other  poems,  and  gives  them  the  effect 
of  harmony,  no  less  than  of  melody.  Every  poem  teems  with  that 
artistic  perfection  which  genius  finds  at  once,  and  by  instinct.  —  R.  E. 
FRANC£LLON,  in  The  Tatler. 

No  one  who  looks  upon  life  with  earnest  eyes  can  fail  to  be  touched 
by  the  passionate  human  cry  which  rings  from  Mrs.  Moulton's  poems. 
...  As  a  sonnet-writer  Mrs.  Moulton  has  few  equals  among  women 
poets.  —  The  Fortnightly  Review,  London. 

Mrs.  Chandler  Moulton  stands  high  up  the  mountain  of  Parnassus, 
beyond  the  snow  line,  in  a  region  where  the  air  is  purer  and  keener 
than  the  mere  minor  poet  may  breathe.  This  I  say  undoubtingly ; 
and  I  believe  that  such  a  sonnet  as  1  am  about  to  quote,  with  its  larger 
utterance,  its  fine  phrasing,  its  calmness  and  its  strength,  will  absolve 
me  from  the  charge  of  extravagance  in  praise.  —  OSWALD  CRAWFURD, 
in  the  London  Academy. 

Mrs.  Moulton  is  the  sweetest  and  foremost  singer  of  her  sex  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  Hers  is  the  sweetest  woman-voice  which 
has  come  to  us  from  across  the  ocean,  and  one  of  the  greatest  charms 
of  her  poetry  is  its  exquisite  simplicity  and  directness  of  feeling.  — 
COULSON  KERNAHAN,  in  Great  Thoughts. 


Swallow  Flights  (Continued) 

Mrs.  Moulton's  lyre  is  not  little.  It  has  played  for  us  haunting 
songs.  —  NORMAN  GALE,  in  The  Academy. 

To  the  critic  weary  with  disappointments,  it  is  a  true  pleasure  to 
meet  with  a  book  that  not  only  professes  to  be  poetry,  but  makes  good 
its  profession.  Such  a  book  is  Mrs.  Moulton's,  which  displays, 
throughout,  subtlety  of  imagination,  delicacy  of  thought,  precision  of 
execution,  and  a  depth  of  genuine  emotion  too  seldom  met  with  in 
these  days  of  artificial  sentiment.  Mrs.  Moulton's  felicity  of  epithet 
enables  her  to  produce  striking  results  with  no  waste  of  means.  .  .  . 
It  is  long  since  we  have  read  a  collection  of  lyrics  with  such  sustained 
interest  and  admiration.  — Morning  Post,  London. 

Mrs.  Moulton's  poems  are  characterized  not  only  by  mastery  of 
form  and  beauty  of  thought  and  imagery,  but  by  intensity  and  direct- 
ness of  feeling,  which  in  these  days  of  artificiality  are  rare.  She  has 
her  own  individual  note  —  a  note  which  is  distinct  from  that  of  any 
other  poet,  living  or  dead.  —  London  Quarterly  Review. 

Mrs.  Moulton  stands  easily  at  the  head  of  the  women  poets  of  Amer- 
ica, past  or  present,  and  her  work  is  always  marked  with  delicacy 
originality,  and  imagination.  She  has  the  dramatic  instinct  which 
leads  her  always  to  give  to  the  sonnet  a  life  not  alone  of  abstract  senti 
ment  but  of  concrete  circumstances,  expressed  or  —  more  often  — 
suggested  as  well.  This  imparts  to  the  sonnet  a  vitality  and  closeness 
of  texture  which  can  be  obtained  in  no  other  way ;  and  of  this  form  of 
poetic  expression  no  other  American  poet  has  gained  so  complete  con- 
trol as  Mrs.  Moulton.  —  ARLO  BATES,  in  Boston  Courier. 

All  things  considered,  she  is  the  representative  woman  poet  of  this 
country,  and  in  sincerity  of  feeling,  sureness  of  touch,  felicity  of  ex- 
pression, and  range  of  sympathy  she  has  a  unique  and  assured  place 
among  the  verse  writers  of  her  epoch.  She  handles  the  sonnet  form 
with  an  ease  and  grace  that  are  nothing  less  than  exquisite.  —  Boston 
Beacon. 

The  poems  bear  the  stamp  of  deep  experience;  no  holiday  effusions 
are  they,  no  experiments  of  artistic  skill,  no  playful  toying  with  the 
gifts  of  the  Muse,  no  echo  of  the  sweet  voices  of  the  inspired  singers ; 
but  she  brings  an  offering  from  the  mystic  soul  of  Nature,  vibrating 
with  the  living  sense  of  the  wonder,  the  awe,  and  the  tragedy  of  exis- 
tence. .  .  .  There  is  no  trace  of  artificial  sentiment  or  feigned 
suffering;  and  in  the  most  plaintive  melodies  there  is  a  current  of 
healthful  life,  like  the  waters  of  a  running  brook  through  withered 
grass  and  fading  foliage.  The  sincerity  of  their  inspiration  is  blended 
with  an  admirable  finish  of  composition.  The  reader  is  often  accosted  by 
dainty  felicities  of  phrase  which  form  fit  music  for  the  accompaniment 
of  high  and  beautiful  thought.  —  New  York  Tribune. 
3 


In  the  Garden  of  Dreams 
Lyrics  and  Sonnets.... 

By   LOUISE   CHANDLER   MOULTON 


i6mo.     Cloth,  extra.     Illustrated.     $1.50 


Among  the  small  number  of  writers  in  our  time  who  have  produced 
real  poems,  the  author  of  " Swallow  Flights"  and  "The  Garden  of 
Dreams  "  occupies  a  high  position.  In  Mrs.  Moulton  we  have  a  poet 
in  whose  genius  a  keen  pottic  insight  is  united  to  a  rare  gift  of  expres- 
sion. —  JOSEPH  SKIPSEY,  in  The  Library  Review,  London. 

The  beauty  and  grace  of  her  lyrics  leave  no  doubt  as  to  her  place 
among  the  poets.  —  The  Graf  hie,  London. 

Let  me  mention  some  of  the  poems  which  have  held  me  as  I  read, 
—  "Love's  Resurrection  Day,"  "  Laus  Veneris,"  "At  Midnight," 
"  Old  Jones  is  Dead,"  "  Shall  I  not  Know,"  "  Before  the  Shrine,"  and 
"  His  Second  Wife  Speaks."  It  seems  to  me  that  the  sonnet  was  never 
set  to  such  music  before,  and  never  weighted  with  more  deep  and 
tender  thought. —JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

I  have  read  many  of  the  poems  in  your  beautiful  "  Garden  of 
Dreams"  which  are  penetrated  by  the  supreme  quality,  emotion,  with- 
out which  verse  is  not  poetry.  —  THOMAS  HARDY. 

It  is,  perhaps,  in  such  half-visionary  moods  that  she  sings  best ; 
the  atmosphere  of  her  poetry  is  not  that  of  a  clear  day,  but  rather  of 
dusk  and  dew,  where,  in  the  shadows,  a  nightingale  sings  and  a  rose 
listens.  .  .  .  They  are  the  very  loveliness  of  poetic  grief;  admirably 
effective,  rich  in  a  charm  that  resembles  a  perfume,  fascinating  by 
their  strenuous  notes  of  passion  and  the  elegiac  flow  of  her  melody.  — 
Literary  World. 

Mrs.  Moulton's  name  is  familiar  to  all  who  take  an  interest  in 
poetry.  The  author  possesses  many  good  gifts  ;  she  is  simple,  she  is 
musical,  she  shows  great  delicacy  and  refinement  both  of  sentiment 
and  language.  She  does  not  pose,  she  does  not  imitate  anybody. — 
Home  Chimes,  London. 


In  the  Garden  of  Dreams  (Continued) 

Anything  more  exquisite  than  the  third  stanza  of  "Parleying" 
one  is  not  likely  to  find  in  a  summer's  day,  and  the  passion  of  regret 
in  it  all  is  most  beautiful,  most  pathetic.  ...  "A  Little  Comedy" 
is  bewitchingly  arch,  and  the  "  Sonnets  in  Many  Moods  "  have  a  range 
of  thought  and  feeling  which  does  not  belie  their  descriptive  title.  — 
Boston  Post. 

Mrs.  Moulton's  thought  Is  always  true ;  her  taste  unerring ;  her 
expression  exquisite.  One  is  never  vexed  by  unbeautiful  or  incon- 
gruous figure,  nor  halting  line.  —  Boston  Pilot. 

Mrs.  Moulton  is  a  poet.  That  is,  she  is  one  who  has  something 
to  say  and  the  gift  of  saying  it  in  verse  which  is  artistically  com- 
plete. —  Churchman. 

It  is  in  her  sonnets,  however,  that  Mrs.  Moulton  seems  to  us  to  be 
at  her  best,  and  there  are  few  American  sonnet  writers  who  can  claim 
to  rank  beside  her.  .  .  .  The  volume  is  one  of  the  really  notable 
additions  to  American  poetry,  of  which  there  have  not  been  an  over- 
abundance of  late,  albeit  there  have  not  been  wanting  sundry  books 
of  verse  which  was  not  wanting  in  cleverness.  In  it  Mrs.  Moulton 
surpasses  anything  which  she  has  before  done.  —  Boston  Courier. 

Since  the  death  of  Helen  Hunt  Jackson  there  is  no  American 
woman  writing  in  verse  to  compare  with  Mrs.  Moulton  in  grace  of 
lyric  expression  or  force  of  restrained  and  subtle  passion  when  she 
deals,  as  she  so  often  does,  with  the  mysteries  of  life,  and  love,  and 
death.  There  is  in  Mrs.  Moulton's  rhymes  no  trace  of  any  artificial 
inspiration,  no  sign  of  any  laborious  effort  in  the  mating  of  words  to 
thoughts.  Everything  is  natural,  spontaneous,  fresh  from  the  heart. 
—  Boston  Beacon. 

"  In  the  Garden  of  Dreams  "  maintains  an  unusual  evenness  at  an 
equally  unusual  high  level  of  excellence.  Open  the  book  at  random, 
almost,  and  you  are  struck  with  the  dignity  of  the  thought,  even  when 
at  the  gayest,  and  by  the  sustained  grace  of  its  phrasings.  Some  of 
these  individual  poems  are  actual  gems,  and  the  book  is  a  credit  to 
American  literature.  —  Congregationalist. 

"  The  Last  Good-by  "  is  one  of  the  best  known  of  Mrs.  Moulton's 
later  sonnets,  and  we  are  inclined  to  think  it  is  one  of  the  poems  by 
which  she  will  be  longest  remembered.  .  .  .  These  five  poems  ["  His 
Second  Wife  Speaks,"  a  group  of  sonnets],  taken  as  a  whole,  form  the 
high-water  mark  of  Mrs.  Moulton's  present  achievement,  and  is  one 
of  which  no  poet  need  feel  ashamed,  either  as  regards  the  conception 
of  the  theme  embodied  in  the  quintette,  or  in  its  working  out.  — 
Boston  Advertiser. 


OTHER  WORKS 

BY  MRS.  MOULTON 


SOME  WOMEN'S  HEARTS.     i6mo.    $1.25. 

These  stories  are  written  in  charming  style,  and  with  a  naturalness 
that  shows  the  earnest  woman  writing  of  what  she  has  seen  and  felt 
without  affectation  or  strain.  —  San  Francisco  Post. 

RANDOM   RAMBLES.     i8mo.    $1.25. 

English  thought  is  touched  with  a  delicate  and  graphic  hand. 
French  liveliness  and  Italian  weather,  Rome,  Florence,  and  Venice, 
the  Passion  Play  and  Munich,  a  French  watering-place,  Westminster 
Abbey,  London  literary  life,  the  streets  and  shops  of  Paris,  —  these 
are  the  things  about  which  Mrs.  Moulton  writes,  and  which  she  tells 
of  in  that  delightful  and  sparkling  manner  that  one  cannot  grow  tired 
of.  —  THOMAS  S.  COLLIER. 

OURSELVES  AND  OUR  NEIGHBORS.  Short  Chats 
on  Social  Topics.  i6mo.  $1.00. 

It  is  wholesome  counsel  for  young  and  old  on  topics  pertaining  to 
love,  engagements,  marriage,  married  life,  social  relations,  etc.  — 
Springfield  Union. 

MISS     EYRE     FROM     BOSTON,     AND    OTHERS. 

i6mo.     $1.25. 

Mrs.  Louise  Chandler  Moulton's  stories  are  always  certain  to  be 
worth  reading,  for  the  author  understands  human  nature  thoroughly.  — 
The  Beacon. 

LAZY     TOURS    IN     SPAIN     AND     ELSEWHERE. 

I2mo.    $1.50. 

She  is  a  delightful  travelling  companion.  Could  give  points  to 
Baedeker.  —  London  Daily  Chronicle. 

The  book  is  one  to  enchain  the  reader  in  his  lazy  hours,  or  beguile 
a  journey,  with  its  charm  and  color  of  foreign  scenes.  —  LILIAN 
WHITING. 

POEMS.  By  Philip  Bourke  Marston.  Edited,  with  a 
Memoir,  by  his  literary  executor,  Mrs.  LOUISE  CHANDLER 
MOULTON.  With  a  Portrait  of  the  author.  Square  i2mo. 
$2.00.  Half  calf,  $3  50. 


Other  Works  by  Mrs.  Moulton  (Continued) 

A    LAST    HARVEST.     By   Philip  Bourke  Marston. 

Lyrics  and  Sonnets.  From  the  Book  of  Love.  Edited, 
with  Biographical  Sketch,  by  LOUISE  CHANDLER  Mouu 
TON.  I2mo.  $1.50. 

By  an  accident  he  lost  his  sight  at  the  age  of  three  years,  and 
never  learned  to  read,  and  was  educated  wholly  by  being  read  to  by 
others.  He  died  in  1887,  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven  years.  That  a 
man  under  such  conditions  could  accomplish  so  much,  and  do  it  so  well, 
is  a  sharp  rebuke  to  those  who  do  so  little  with  their  grand  oppor- 
tunities. —  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 


Mrs.  Moulton's  "Bed-Time  Stories  " 
Series. 

She  is  habitually  interesting,  and  her  English  is  nearly  always  as 
good  as  her  thought,  so  that  when  child  and  moralist  agree  to  approve 
her,  the  literary  artist,  whose  delight  is  but  in  excellent  workmanship, 
will  never  quarrel  with  the  verdict.  In  America,  indeed,  this  is  already 
an  admitted  thing.  —  London  Academy. 

BED-TIME    STORIES.       With   Illustrations  by  ADDIK 

LEDYARD.    Square  i6mo.    $1.25. 

Her  pretty  book  of  "  Bed-Time  Stories  "  is  spotless  as  an  open 
calla,  and  so  rich  in  beautiful  lessons  attractively  conveyed  that  every 
mother  should  present  her  children  with  it  as  a  text-book  on  children's 
manners  towards  parents,  servants,  and  companions.  —  Chicago 
Times. 

MORE     BED-TIME     STORIES.     With  Illustrations  by 
ADDIE  LEDYARD.    Square  i6mo.    $1.25. 

NEW    BED-TIME     STORIES.      With    Illustrations  by 
ADDIE  LEDYARD.     Square  i6mo.    $1.25. 

FIRELIGHT     STORIES.       With    Illustrations.       Square 
i6mo.    $1.25. 

STORIES  TOLD   AT  TWILIGHT.      With  Illustrations 
by  H.  WINTHROP  PEIRCE.     i6mo.    $1.25. 
The  above  five  volumes,  uniformly  bound  in  cloth,  gilt, 
in  box.    $6.25. 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  &  CO.,  Publishers 

254  Washington  Street,  Boston 


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_£  S°S£!*RN  REGIONAL  UBRAHY  FAO 


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